Imperium
by Velosaurus
Summary: Before allegiance, rank, and purpose—before war—a civilian becomes a revolutionary, and a revolutionary becomes a warrior. All he wanted was a better world, but as a warrior he will preside over the rise and fall of an empire and harness his dream of peace into a weapon capable of binding legions to his will. Explore the greatest story of nobody to nightmare in all of Fire Emblem.
1. The Laborers

"My legs! Oh gods, they're caught! Get it off!"

It's impossible to know when humans first began to extract gold from the ground, but ever since nigh every civilization in Ylisse and Valm has followed a cardinal rule. The gold must flow. Innumerable sovereigns across history have put up valiant and determined efforts to keep the supply up, and legions of manual laborers have been employed in these endeavors. Unfortunately, the prosperity never falls equally, and the lowborn who make up these laborers are forced to work long hours in dangerous conditions just to earn a small portion of the wealth earned on their backs. The rest ends up with the nobility, who the workers are expected to revere for giving them the opportunity to work. Such is the nature of a feudal society.

At the time, Walhart didn't know there could be anything else.

"For the Voice of Naga's sake, Walhart! Don't just stand there like a damned imbecile!"

Only twenty eight years old now, Walhart was not yet a conqueror. He wasn't even a soldier. He was an orphaned peasant's son who'd been supporting himself with manual labor since he was a boy. Physically he was recognizable as the man Chrom and the Shepherds would come to know so well, but his youth, though fading, hadn't left him yet. Walhart's hair was long, but the mine he worked in now required that he keep it tied up. It was pitch black instead of white, but he did have the same entirely white eyes as his older self. Walhart was tall and muscular under the dirt and dust stained rags that covered him now. Even among the miners he was considered a giant.

Beyond that, he was considered something of a thinker.

 _It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the offerings. Where there's a service, there's someone being served._ Walhart thought to himself as he tightened his hold on his pickaxe. As he felt the cold wooden grip in his hands. He focused on it as he gathered his thoughts. _Any man that speaks to you of personal sacrifice for the greater good is speaking of slaves and masters, and he views himself the master. The working classes have everything that is needed for the maintenance and continued preservation of civilization. The nobility will never truly respect the poor because our feudal society is built on inequality, and respect only exists among equals. The working classes don't need the nobility. The division of labor could be achieved_ -"

"Walhart! Get over here!"

 _People don't question feudalism because they don't know any better. It's been that way since Alm and Celica's time. If you could step outside of society and look at things objectively, you would see that it is a prison. It is a prison full of willing people. They choose to be a part of it. Peasants choose to prop up their lords through their labor. Soldiers choose to fight for greedy and self serving monarchs. They don't know any better. Feudalism has created a society without social mobility. The nobles would tell you that people wouldn't know how to do anything else. If you were hurt, would you want a doctor that used to be a farmer? Do you want your buildings designed by the people who did the bare minimum amount of work each day to make them? It's true that it would be traumatic if there was more social mobility than there is now, but the nobles have created the conditions that have given rise to this culture of suspicion, and they have done so deliberately, because it reinforces the status quo. It fosters division, and division can be used to control the population._

"Celica's bones, Walhart! Get over here!"

 _And that is why, when you see a stranger, you don't think, "Who is that person?" You think, "What does that person do?" You don't think, "What are their hopes? Their dreams? Their ambitions?" You think, "Who does that person work for? How much money do they have? What is their lineage? What is their socioeconomic status relative to me? Are they more important than me, or am I more important than them?" Be happy in your work, they say. Be grateful for the opportunity. Be thankful for the system. Mind your betters, for they think for you. Enough. Reject the system. It stands to reason that the necessity of a privileged order is a fallacy._

"WALHART!" The future conqueror finally snapped back to reality and turned to see a fellow miner, Farber, calling him. Long before he became one of Walhart's generals, Farber had worked by Walhart's side at the subsurface gold mine of Sakdrisi. Only twenty two years old, Farber had been quite the looker. His light blonde hair still had its full color, and his rigid jaw gave him a handsome visage even as the grime of the subterranean conditions coated him, and even as his expression twisted with annoyance as he waved Walhart over. "GET OVER HERE AND HELP!"

Walhart liked to think about his political and social views as he worked. He would compose entire treatises in his head as he hauled ore or chiseled away at the rock, and he got through his long work days in an almost trance like state. He thought more clearly when he was moving, and the monotonous work he was employed to do didn't use up much of his mental strength. It made the months and years go by, but it also made Walhart a little oblivious to what was going on around him. Quickly scanning the surroundings as he ran over to Farber, Walhart could see that part of the cavern ceiling had come down after a rather narrow archway collapsed. A fellow worker's legs were caught beneath the rubble, and the two quickly got to work trying to dig him out.

"Oh gods, help me! PLE-HEASE!"

"Hang on!" Walhart reassured him as he began to hurl the debris away. "Stay strong, and we will get you out of this!"

"Damn it, Walhart!" Farber spat. "What were you doing?!"

"I apologize. I was… thinking."

"Writing another damned treatise in your head?! Was that it?! You need to pay attention to what's happening! To what's _real_!"

The two managed to clear away everything they could lift, but a large rock still had the worker's legs trapped. Walhart and Farber couldn't lift it, and Farber called out as he noticed the mine foreman approaching. "By the Divine Dragons!" The older man cried out. "The archway came down!"

"Oh, you think?!" The injured miner cried out. "Get me out!"

The foreman didn't bother to help. He just studied the boulder and stared intently at the worker's legs for several seconds. When he finally did move, it wasn't to contribute. Rather, he turned and sprinted back the way he came, and he returned minutes later with two other mine employees. Walhart and Farber didn't recognize them as comrades. These two were beyond their pay grade, and they had little respect for the miners. One was a priest with a healing stave. The other was a security guard with a large axe. The foreman took one last look at the hopeful worker and shook his head dismissively. "Cut him out!"

Walhart and Farber looked at him in shock. "What?!"

The worker's face went white. "WHAT?!"

"The rock isn't moving. We'll need to cut him out! The healing stave will seal the wound."

Walhart's face became consumed by rage. The foreman had no sympathy for the injured worker under his care. He couldn't even be bothered to speak directly to the man. He only cared about ending the inconvenience as quickly as possible. Farber stood up and pleaded with him. "Hold on. Hold on! Walhart and I can't lift this thing, no, but we did make it budge. If we can get more miners, we can lift this clean off!"

"It'll take a least a dozen miners to do that, and I'm not going to lose that kind of productivity. The mine will not shut down for even a minute just because one man got hurt!"

"You can't be serious!" The worker exclaimed. Farber was almost just as shocked.

"But-"

"I'm not taking a hit in productivity rates to gather a dozen men and pull him out just so that a healer can tell us his legs are already too far gone." The foreman turned to the security guard. "Cut him out!"

"NO!" The man begged.

"Now!"

Farber tried to step between them. "You can't! We can get him out! Just give us time!"

"Do it!"

The guard hesitated, but he finally complied and shoved Farber out of the way as he approached the man. The trapped worker begged for his legs with all the breath he could muster, but it didn't stop the axe from falling. One swing. Two.

The "inconvenience" was over.

Walhart watched in stunned silence as the guard pulled the now crippled worker out, two trails of red following him where his legs used to be. The priest immediately applied his healing magic, and the worker's injury closed. "What do we do with him?" The guard asked. The foreman turned. He couldn't even look the man in the eye.

"Give him a hundred gold and dump him in town."

"Town?"

"Well he doesn't work here anymore. Miners need legs."

The guard complied and dragged the worker away, and the foreman turned back to Farber and Walhart. The two men just stood there, short circuited by the raw apathy and callousness they'd just seen from their own superior. The only true emotion they could register at the moment was rage, and they silently directed it at the foreman as much as they could. To speak, to criticize, would be insubordination. Neither man could afford to lose his job, so they just glared at the foreman. The one act of protest they could manage. The foreman had seen their rage a thousand times before. It didn't affect him. He just returned their glare for a few seconds before ordering them back to work, leaving the two miners unable to do anything but seethe with hate and frustration.

At least, not yet.

* * *

Walhart looked uneasily at Farber as he killed his third glass of ale. It had been two days since the traumatic event, and despite the foreman's best efforts to keep the gold flowing, the city of Sakdrisi had chosen to close down the mine until its structural integrity was guaranteed. The two miners had little to do but kill their time until it was reopened. At least, that's what Walhart had believed. Farber had just revealed he and several of the other miners had been working on something in the meantime.

"A strike? You want to shut the mine down?"

"Mine is already shut down." Farber responded without setting his glass down.

"You know full well what I mean. You want to shut it down permanently?"

"If need be." Farber looked into Walhart's eyes. "We need to stand up for ourselves. Walhart, they cut off a man's goddamned legs just because they couldn't be bothered to get a few miners to stop working for even a few minutes. We're nothing to them. We need this strike to make a statement."

"A statement, huh?"

"Come on, Walhart. I remember when I was nineteen and I first came to that mine. Heh, it was only three years ago, but it feels like it's been a lifetime."

Walhart took a sip of his own ale. "Mining does that to you."

"I remember when I met you. Seemed like a quiet guy with no personality. I figured I could stay near you to look good in front of the supervisors. Maybe I'd even get you to do some of my work for me." Farber smiled at a waitress as she brought him a fourth glass. He was becoming a little uncoordinated in his movements now, but he eventually reached his glass after a bit of fumbling. "Mmm, nothing like a glass of ale after a hard day of work. Thought that back then too. One day I figured to myself, why don't I talk to that Walhart? Invite him for a drink? That's when I realized just how much you have to say about things."

Walhart returned a small smile. It wasn't a common sight on his stern face. "My secret is that I write while I work. Then I jot it down when I get home."

"To be honest, most of what you say goes over my head. You'd go on for hours about feudalism and inequality and privilege, and I don't remember any of it." Farber began to drink. "But you'd ask these questions I had no answer for, and that I remember. 'Why should the nobles be in charge just because of who their parents were?' 'Why is it so hard for uneducated workers to move up in life? To find opportunity?' 'Why do the people allow the landed elite to live off the backs of their work?' 'Why does there need to be a landed aristocracy?' I never really thought about those things before. Lords are lords. Nobles are nobles. Kings are kings. I didn't think things could be different… but why can't they be? You made me really think about the way the world is, Walhart. Now I'm finally doing something about it. I told everyone about what the foreman did, and they all agree it was out of line. What if that happened to us? What if the whole mine collapsed? They wouldn't do a damned thing to help, and this proves that. We have to act. The Kingdom of Valm needs the gold from this mine, so our strike has the potential to cripple this economy. They'd have to listen to us." Farber slammed his glass down. "Think of what we could have. Real safety regulations. Accountable bosses. Paid leave! This kingdom needs us, so it's about time we got some respect!"

Walhart placed his hand on Farber's shoulder. "If I truly did inspire you to think about changing society, then I am proud, but we need to work. You told me yourself that day I need to focus on what's real. I want things to be different, but I can't afford to be out of a job. My wife and I barely scrape by."

"I promise you the strike will make things better for all of us. You know, Walhart, something you said once really stuck with me. Us manual laborers are one injury, one accident, away from redundancy, and redundancy is one step away from death. An objective way of telling how important someone is in society is seeing what people will do to keep them around. If a lord is injured in battle, the army will do anything it can to save him. If a conscript is injured, he becomes another statistic. If an old nobleman falls ill, they'll do anything to buy him a few more years. If a young miner is hurt, they leave him to die. Society doesn't care about us. We need to protect ourselves. This strike is the only way we'll be heard."

Walhart was silent for over a minute, and he took the time to finish his ale before answering. There was uncertainty in his eyes as he spoke. The ferocity of his older self hadn't yet taken hold. "You're sure this will work? They'll have to rehire us eventually?"

"They need this gold. They can't ignore us." Farber extended his hand, forcing Walhart to decide. "Do we have your support?"

Walhart eventually extended his own arm, and the two clasped each other's fists. "Alright. Let's control our own destinies."

* * *

"What do you mean you're not working right now?!"

Walhart lost his parents when he was just a boy, and he'd been supporting himself off of manual labor for almost twenty years now with nothing to show for it. His wife, Hildegard, was the one real thing he lived for. A thin woman of average height, Hildegard's husband towered over her, but she brought out a gentleness from him virtually no one else had seen or ever would see. Walhart thought about their marriage as he held her. As he brushed away her light, almost white blonde hair and looked into her brown eyes. Hildegard was a merchant's daughter, and she'd grown up relatively comfortable. That changed when her father's business failed, and he died in poverty just before her marriage. Hildegard depended entirely on her husband now, though even so, she was still considered of higher status than him in the eyes of the feudal society. "I didn't quit, darling." Walhart spoke as softly as he could, and his wife's frustration slowly eased. "The strike is temporary. When it ends, we'll have better pay. The mine will be safer. This will be good for us."

"Gods, I still can't believe what happened to that man. Still, Wally, you know our savings are so limited. How long will it be?"

"I… I cannot know."

"You don't know and you still agreed to be part of this?!"

"The strike is very organized. Any miner who refused to be a part of it wouldn't be able to work anyways. We'll protest by blocking off the mine."

"So you're not really in control of anything? You're being strong armed?"

Walhart was being forced into it in a way, as the striking workers wouldn't allow their less angry comrades to continue working. He had been given a choice between not working and contributing to the strike, or just not working. Still, he did believe it was a good idea. "I promise you this will work." Walhart took his wife's hands and brought them to his face. "I'll take care of you, Hildy. You know that."

"What if we lose the house?!"

"It won't come to that." Walhart scowled. "And our savings will last longer if we cut down on unnecessary expenses."

"Don't say it."

"Like the donations to the church your mother keeps making."

Walhart's marriage was a special one. A lot of men love their wife's body. Fewer also love her personality. Walhart was all that and one better. He truly loved his mother-in-law. A deeply religious woman, Hildegard's mother had been on good terms with Walhart since they'd met, and he came to view her as _their_ mother. The closest thing to the mother he never really knew. Unfortunately her mind had been slipping away for several years, and now her dedication to the church had come to dominate what was left. "Stop it, Wally. Not one more word on that. I don't want to fight."

"You've let them use her!"

"They're not using her."

"They use everybody. The church is a corrupt business. They use people's faith in Naga, Tiki, and Mila to conflate themselves with morality. People think they're doing good in the world by donating, and all they do is line the pockets of the clergy. Furthermore, people become so obsessed over these ridiculous legends of overgrown lizards that they allow it to dominate their lives. The government uses religion to subjugate people. After all, people might rise up against their leaders, but they'd never forsake their gods. The government uses religion to justify its rule, and the church takes advantage of the privileges working with the monarchy gives it. It keeps the people pacified. Religion is to society what alcohol is to an individual."

"Mm-hmm." Was Hildegard's only response as she leaned closer. "Speaking of which, were you drinking before you got here?"

"That does not invalidate my point, woman!"

Hildegard didn't engage in the debate her husband seemed to want. She just began to cuddle up to him, and Walhart took a few startled steps back. "Oh, look at my big strong writer. Those big thick hands can use a pen as well as a pickaxe."

"You're mocking me."

"Not at all." Hildegard jabbed her fingers into her husband's abdomen, and his face scrunched up as he tried to suppress an undignified giggle. "You're so cute when you get all serious. Go on. Talk more about feudalism and whatnot."

"S-stop mocking me, I'm s-saying something important." Walhart's lips finally have way to a smile. "S-stop!"

"There's that smile. I don't seem to see it much these days." Hildegard softly moaned as she wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and stood on her toes to meet his lips, and Walhart bent down in turn. The two kissed before holding each other, a look of understanding between them. "I know this is serious. I'll… I'll talk to my mother."

"Thank you."

"I'm just worried. My father worked his whole life to build our family business, and it still came crashing down around him. He died with nothing. I need you now. I need you to take care of me. To make me happy."

"I will."

"And we're a partnership, so it's also my job to make sure you're happy. Walhart, you talk about necessity, but is this really what you want to do?"

"All I want is to protect our future. I love you, darling. More than anything. We'll stand by each other's side as we march down the path to success. To prosperity. I'll make a living for us. A home we can bring a child into. I promise."

"Prove that to me. That's all I'm asking." Hildegard rested her head against his chest. "And be careful. I can't lose you too."

"I won't leave you alone. I'll support us."

"It's not just money." Hildegard looked back into his eyes. "I need _you_. I love _you_. I want you to succeed, because we need money, yes, but also because I want you to feel like you've achieved something. I can tell you're not happy." She ran her hand along his cheek. "You look so much older than when we met. Life is eating at you."

"Fate is a cruel thing. She gently caresses some, but forcibly molests others."

"Well that's… one way of putting it. Just don't go out and do anything too stressful, huh?"

"Everything will be fine." Walhart and Hildegard went back to holding each other. "Thank you for understanding. The strike will be over soon, and we will be at peace again."

Hildegard eventually retired to their bedroom, but Walhart didn't immediately join her. Instead he walked to a small, out of the way room and lit a candle. The flickering light revealed stacks of notebooks, each one filled with Walhart's writing. Smiling at the sight, Walhart sat down at a table, opened the notebook on top of it, and continued writing his latest treatise. The very same one he'd been thinking of two days ago.

* * *

"I don't understand why we have to be here at all. Why can't we just drive out the miners and be done with it?"

The miners of the Sakdrisi subterranean gold mine had planned their strike carefully. The city devoted just one week to repairing the mine. The day it was to reopen, the miners blocked the entrance and refused to work. Two months had passed since then. For two months the Kingdom of Valm's gold production had fallen by over seventy percent. For two months the miners had protested. For two months negotiations were made, but no compromise could be reached.

The Kingdom of Valm was the smallest and least significant country on the continent. Its King was only about as powerful as the dukes of other countries, and the likes of Ylisse, Plegia, and Chon'sin had economies over twenty times bigger. Truly it was only significant for having the same name as the continent. Gold mining was the only thing that gave Valm any kind of influence, and the loss of the gold mine was unacceptable. The gold had to flow. Thankfully, the Magistrate of Sakdrisi had found a solution, and a rather ingenious one at that if she did say so herself.

"Legally, this sort of thing has to be done on site. Formalities."

"I don't like it. They won't like it, Magistrate Commodia."

Just twenty eight years old, the same age as Walhart, Commodia was a short, slender woman. Her thighs were barely the same thickness as Walhart's arms, and the top of her head wouldn't have gone past his pectorals. On the other hand, her net worth was greater than a thousand Walharts. It would literally take decades for him to make enough money to afford the dress and jewelry she was wearing at the moment. What greater metaphor for the nature of power in a feudal system could there be?

If it even needs to be said, Commodia was of noble birth, and her position as magistrate was hardly earned. Still, she took legal matters very seriously. It was Commodia's hope that she would someday be part of the noble court in the capital itself, but for now she was stuck dealing with dreadful places like this. The magistrate's well armed guards surrounded her on all sides, but she could still bring her light green eyes on the tired and dirty miners as she brushed her silver hair aside and looked around. "I know they won't like it." Commodia answered as she turned back to her white haired male assistant. "Liking it is beside the point." The young woman simply waved her arm, and the captain of her guard stepped forward to get the attention of the striking miners. "These places are disgusting. These miners are degenerate scum, only capable of manual labor. They're uneducated. They're stupid. They're like animals. However, we need the _mines_. We need the _gold_. Our kingdom is nothing without these resources. What we don't need are these pathetic wrecks. You're right. They won't like it." Commodia smiled at her assistant. "But perhaps you have me confused with someone who cares. That's what the soldiers are for."

The striking miners were soon gathered in assembly in front of the mine, and Commodia, her assistant, and her _many_ soldiers stood in front of them at a podium. The miners had been made to believe the magistrate was here for final negotiations, and the guards were unnerving them. "As you all know, the Kingdom of Valm depends heavily on gold. The ore produced by this mine sustains our country, and we have you brave and hard working men to thank for it." Commodia's voice boomed. "You can all rest easy now. The King thanks each and every one of you for your contribution. Your work here is at an end. For all of you, this will be your last day at this mine." The miners erupted into booing and worried talking, and Commodia spoke louder. "Thanks to our friends in the Church of Naga, we have found a way to automate the mining production. In exchange for a small cut of the profits, the priests are allowing us to use Einherjar. We no longer have need for human laborers. The strike is over, for you all are no longer employed at the mine from this moment on. You need no longer face long hours and dangerous conditions."

"WHAT?!" Walhart roared, though his voice wasn't any louder than the other angry miners. Farber was standing nearby, and he turned to him. "You said the strike would work!"

"I… I-"

"I could lose my house!"

Commodia continued, even as the men howled at her. "I know this seems like a traumatic change, but I assure you this is an opportunity. No more danger. No more dust. No more dirt."

"WE KNOW IT'S AWFUL DOWN THERE!" One miner shouted. "BUT WE HAVE FAMILIES TO SUPPORT!"

"You all will be given severance pay for your work here. All of Valm appreciates your contributions to society, and Valm takes care of its people."

Walhart's blood boiled as he heard those words. He looked at Commodia. He looked at her expensive dress, which she would most likely throw out if she found that the dirt had left even one stain. He looked at her gold jewelry, possibly produced at that very mine. He looked at her soft, feminine features–maintained only because manual labor was never required of her. He then looked over to her guards. They were there for her, not them. They'd cut them all down if she gave the word. They readied their shields and held their weapons at the ready even as Commodia pretended to respect them. _Valm cares for its people._ Walhart thought to himself. _Is that what they call caring for their people?_

"Don't disguise what you're saying with pretty words!" Another miner shouted. "How much money are we getting?! It has to be enough to live off of while we find new jobs!"

"The amount will vary depending on your specific circumstances."

All the miners booed louder than ever. "That's crap!" The miner continued. "You just don't want us to get angry while you kick us out!" The man turned to his fellow workers. "These greedy parasites profit off of our work! They have more gold than anyone because of us, but they can't spare a decent amount when we need it! They can't even be bothered to pay us what we deserve! They'd rather bring in those soulless things than increase our pay! That's the kind of people we're dealing with! We're the ones that make them rich!"

Several of the miners roared in agreement, and Commodia glared at that man in particular. "I assure you, there's no-"

The man shouted as loud as he could now, and Commodia gave up trying to compete with him. "YOU SHAKE US OUT FOR ALL WE'RE WORTH, AND NOW YOU WANT US TO SAY THANK YOU!"

Commodia turned to the captain of her guards. "Captain Decius, this one is an instigator. Make an example of him."

The captain nodded, and he silently approached the man. His back was turned to the soldiers, and he didn't notice. "The nobles will take and take, and they'll never stop. They have to be told to stop! They have to be made to stop!" The man's righteous fury ended as the shaft of a spear struck him in the back of the head. He was knocked to the ground, and the nearby miners quickly backed away as Decius stood over him. "Agh!"

"Get back!" Another soldier commanded as they moved forward to surround the injured man. Decius himself drew a club and began striking him. He cried out with each blow, but his screams became more muffled as blood poured from his mouth.

"No! Help, help me! Someone! AGH, ugh… gack… mph."

Decius stopped just before actually killing the man, leaving him squirming as a bloody, pulpy mess. "Get back! All of you! This is for your own protection!"

Commodia pretended to be horrified. Of course, she did nothing to rein in the guards. "Workers! Brothers! Please! Let's be reasonable!"

 _How dare she call us brothers._ Walhart thought.

"If you just stay calm, I'll take you through the terms of the severance pay. I think you'll find the terms quite generous. We'll give you exactly what you deserve."

Walhart exploded with rage. He didn't think. He just acted on pure emotion. "I NEED THIS JOB! I CAN'T SUPPORT MY WIFE WITHOUT IT! YOU'D DRIVE US OFF LIKE ANIMALS! YOU SCUM OF THE EARTH!" He noticed a nearby rock, seized it in his hand, and hurled it at Commodia. The magistrate was struck in the shoulder with enough force to send her tumbling to the ground.

"Tiki's green scales!" Decius exclaimed in shock.

"Magistrate!" Commodia's assistant cried as he rushed to her side. "You people hurt a woman! And a noblewoman at that! Disgusting savages! Soldiers, pacify them! ALL OF THEM!"

Personally motivated by the potential loss of their own employer, Commodia's soldiers surged forward and drove the miners back with spears, clubs, maces, and even tomes. The workers scrambled away from them for their very lives, and they were quickly driven into the mine itself, but they were able to hold their ground there. Walhart had simply been angry. He hadn't been thinking. He'd acted on instinct. He had no way of knowing what kind of powder keg his actions would ignite, and now he could only sprint away from the violence. He'd been in street fights before, but nothing like this. A part of him also didn't want to hurt the soldiers. His own writings described soldiers as workers exploited by lords same as them. He had no intention of joining his angry comrades as they grabbed mining tools and fought back as best they could, but then he noticed a soldier striking Farber with a club.

It was a moment that would change history.

Walhart stormed forward and struck the soldier in the head with enough force to send his helmet flying off. Hitting the metal with his bare fist was less than pleasant, but a lifetime of manual labor had made him incredibly strong, and the soldier had to take a moment to collect himself. An uneasy smile took Walhart's face as he raised his fist. He'd just injured a soldier. The same people the government used to enforce the laws. He wasn't powerless. He could fight, and by doing so, he couldn't be intimidated into silence. Walhart had never felt power before, and he couldn't stop himself from striking the soldier again. Then again. Then again.

The man eventually managed to knock Walhart away from him with his armored gauntlet, and the two then grappled for their lives. Walhart was stronger than the soldier, but not by much, and he desperately wanted to end the fight quickly. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he seized the soldier's head and slammed it against the wall of the mine. The man hit a jagged rock that protruded out of the wall, and the rock punctured his skull and sent blood spurting out of the wound. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving. The first time Walhart ever killed anyone. Walhart slowly looked down to his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. He looked down. His clothing was stained red with the man's blood.

The same color as the armor he'd wear.

"Oh no. Oh no, no. No-no-no… oh no. What have I done? …WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

Walhart just stood there, overwhelmed by everything that had happened, until Decius struck him in the back of the head.


	2. The Gladiators

"Well hello there, new friend."

Walhart had been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time, and it took a great deal of effort to suppress the groggy feeling in his head. The former gold miner felt resistance as he tried to rise, and he scowled as his metal chains were made known to him. The chains on his feet still allowed him to spread his legs apart and even walk, but going anywhere was impossible as they connected to the leg bindings of men adjacent to him. His handcuffs were his alone, but they were more restrictive. He could still bring his hands to his face and try to ease his pain, but that was about all he could do. "What… bah! What is this? Why am I… where are we?"

"Finally coming back to us?" Walhart recognized the second voice, and he turned to his left to see Farber. His face was cut and bruised, but Farber didn't appear to have been knocked out as he was. "The Magistrate's boy toy roughed you up pretty good."

"What?"

"The guard captain. What do you remember?"

"I… the strike." Walhart looked down to his hands. He still vividly recalled the soldier's blood on them, and his clothes were still stained dark red. "That accursed woman! She, she made me kill that man!"

"Ha!" Walhart turned to his right to see who had first spoken. "That's one way to justify it."

"Where am I now? Tell me!"

A smile crept across the man's face. "The prison ship _Mae_. We're heading to an offshore prison facility. The place they send people they really don't want to see again."

"Mae?" Walhart focused, willing through his dazed state. "A mage that accompanied Celica."

"Very good."

Walhart glared at the man. "Who are you?"

"A potential ally." He extended his hand, though Walhart had no intention of shaking it. "Ruger, at your service."

Long before he'd someday take Cynthia and a handful of mercenaries for a bit of a ride, Ruger had been a drifter, con-artist, and general all around scumbag who regularly scoured Valm in search of opportunity. He'd been apprehended by the law plenty of times, but he never seemed to stay caught. Though his reused Awakening portrait doesn't do him justice, Ruger actually did have a bit of a resemblance to Chrom, especially when he was younger. His hair was dark blue, and he had similar facial features. The main differences were his height, scrawniness, and the slimy smile usually plastered on his face. "Out with it. What do you want?"

"Hold on." Farber interjected. "Ruger here says he has a plan to get off this ship."

"That I do. Today is your lucky day, new friends. I'm going to give you a chance for freedom, and I won't even charge you."

Walhart raised an eyebrow, but he didn't completely dismiss the little man he was chained to. He didn't make a habit of underestimating people. "You think you can escape this prison?"

"No need to escape the prison when you came _for_ the prison."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll find out. Anyways, I'm going to need you two to help. I know what you're capable of." The trickster looked into Walhart's eyes. "Especially you, big guy."

Walhart's mind flashed back to the soldier he'd killed. To the last, tortured expression on his face. "That… that was a mistake. I don't belong here."

"Oh? Fifteen soldiers were injured in that revolt—that's what they're calling it—and two were put into critical condition, but only one actually died. And you say you don't belong here, Walhart."

"How do you know about that?!"

"Well I wasn't there." Ruger looked over his fingernails. "I'm not the laborer type. The other miners here have been talking quite a bit about you. You're rather infamous."

Farber cleared his throat. "To clarify, I-I wasn't one of those people."

"I don't belong here! I swear so long as I live that I will never take another life again!" (Ha!) Walhart struggled against his chains. "I'm no criminal!"

"Everyone who finds themselves on the wrong side of the law is technically a criminal. Rapists and murderers right alongside tax dodgers and public drunkards." Ruger smiled to a passing guard. "Now you see why you shouldn't be so quick to judge."

"Enough, you pathetic excuse for a man!" Walhart sat back against the wall. "I will have no part of this!"

Walhart thought he saw the guard slip something to Ruger out of the corner of his eye, but it was too subtle a motion to register. Ruger looked like he hadn't moved at all when Walhart turned back to him. "Whatever. I'm sure you'll change your mind." Ruger didn't say anything further. He just stared at the passing guards that made their way through the ship's lower deck until he finally focused on one in particular. He hung his head as the guard walked by, but quickly sat up as soon as his back was turned. "Hey, bozo!"

The guard looked back and readied a club. "What do you want, pipsqueak?!"

"Oh, nothing much." Ruger materialized a throwing knife from Naga knows where. "Just a clear shot at your neck."

With but a quick flick of his wrist, Ruger brought the guard down with blood spurting from his neck. Walhart froze, and Farber, who'd seemed on the verge of falling asleep, jerked forward. "What the?!"

"Stand up! Both of you!" Ruger snapped.

"Why?"

"I need to reach his keys!" Walhart and Farber stood up, allowing Ruger to do the same. In fact, they actually forced him up by virtue of their leg chains being connected. The three moved as far forward as their bindings allowed, and Ruger began fiddling through the guard's clothing. He didn't stop as another guard rushed towards them. He only waved towards his direction. "You two can still move your arms well enough. Take care of him."

"What?! I won't just kill a man for you!" Walhart protested. Ruger didn't even look up.

"You will if you want to live." Farber and Walhart looked back nervously. "Running out of time, you two! RUNNING OUT OF TIME!"

The former miners finally sprung into action as the guard reached Ruger. Their handcuffs restricted their movements, but they still managed to seize the man and hold him through sheer strength. Walhart simply kept the guard in place, but Farber managed to gouge out his eyes before striking him in the throat, and Walhart couldn't help but look back uneasily. "Farber?!"

"What?! I don't want to stay here!"

Ruger finally retrieved the keys and freed himself, then Walhart and Farber. "Alright! I love it when a job comes together. Now get whatever weapons you can and kill every guard that fights back. The ones who don't are on my payroll."

"I-I won't kill people!"

Ruger rolled his eyes at Walhart before tossing him the keys. "Fine, then free the miners who will."

* * *

"Quaestor! Uh, hey! Q-Quaestor! A moment of your time, Quaestor! Sir!" A young dark mage brushed his dark bluish hair aside and turned towards the diminutive man sprinting after him. "Quaestor! Sir, please!"

The Quaestor lifted his right arm and held it near his face. He notably kept his middle and ring finger curled up while extending only his index and pinky fingers. Perhaps he did it to show off his carefully maintained nails. Perhaps it was simply a nervous habit. "What is it?!"

"Quaestor Excellus, s-sir!" The official had to stop and catch his breath. "You forgot to fill out some of the paperwork Magistrate Commodia requested. The council's minutes are in need of your-"

Excellus wasn't such an assault on the eyes as he would be in his later years now. His hair had more color, and he wasn't nearly so corpulent. Still, he couldn't be described as physically fit, and his youthful face could still twist into a very unsettling expression. He was already possessed of his vanity, as his elaborate gold and purple robes and copiously applied makeup would attest to. "I am the Quaestor of Sakdrisi! My job is to apply judgement through delicate wisdom, and you bring me forms to fill out?!"

"But-"

"I serve the people and interests of the Kingdom of Valm. Would you have me serve through minutia?"

"N-no-"

"Then begone, worm. I have matters of consequence to attend to."

Excellus turned, making sure his cape flew into the face of the official, and retreated towards his private office. Two security guards stood by the double doors leading to it. They opened them for the Quaestor but quickly sealed them shut to keep out the unwanted guest. Commodia's official looked to the guards, then to the massive emblem of a lion on the doors, and finally decided to turn and walk away dejectedly.

The Quaestor was a position in the Valmese government responsible for public finances and audits. It was one of the lowest positions in a city government, but it gave Excellus access to the city treasury, and he made good use of that power.

Nobody really knew where Excellus came from. He was well versed in the internal affairs of Valm, and he didn't speak with a foreign accent, but his lineage couldn't be proven. It was as if Naga herself had spawned him, or perhaps he'd simply congealed somewhere. Regardless, Excellus was a wizard when it came to finances, and at this time he had a nest egg that could give the average Anna a run for her money. If he had lived in our society, he might have been an accountant. He wouldn't be a young, wide-eyed accountant trying to get a job at a nice company like Apple or Google either. He wouldn't even be a jaded, middle aged freelance accountant hopping from one contract job to another. No, he'd be a skeevy, take you for everything you have and be out of the country before you ever realized it, Enron/Worldcom tier accountant. He served Commodia well by engineering complex financial schemes that dragged her enemies into the red while leaving the Sakdrisi government to rake in the gold. Of course, much of that wealth would find its way into Excellus' hands, but that kind of corruption was hardly abnormal in Valm. He was also an extraordinarily powerful dark mage. It was almost as if a secretive, ancient cult had trained him.

Nah. That's just crazy talk.

"Oh, Nelson!" Excellus said in a cheery tone as he plopped himself in his padded chair. "Where are those two things I asked for?!"

"C-coming, sir!" A young man with short, well kept grayish hair stepped forward with a sheet of paper and a tray of food. Nelson was a good natured and excitable young man who yearned to someday have a position of his own in the government. He was a long way away from becoming the man that Severa would despise. Time has a way of changing people, and Excellus' influence probably didn't help. "I made it exactly as that Ylissean chef told me to. Then I had him deported as you requested."

"Oh _gods_ yes. I've been looking forward to this since brunch. Finally I can have my ortolan." An Ylissean dish, the ortolan was… actually, I'll let Excellus explain this one. "Ah, the ortolan. That delicate little songbird. They prepare it by plucking out its eyes. This artificial night causes the bird to gorge itself until it's as fat as possible. Then they take it and drown it in brandy, which kills and marinates it. Then you eat it whole. It's… _ingenious_. I've never seen food like this. I think it's the _cruelty_ that really makes it."

"Heh, those crazy Ylisseans." Nelson chimed in as he placed the tray down on a table in front of Excellus. He then readied the paper. "Shall I read you your reports?"

"Hold on! Let me _savor_ it." Excellus poured himself a glass of wine, enjoyed it slowly, then finally devoured the ortolan in one bite. He slumped into his chair as a smile crept across his face. "Proceed."

"Acknowledged, Quaestor Excellus." Nelson began to read. "There's been a mercenary revolt in western Ferox. Basilio, the fairly new Khan of West Ferox, is negotiating for an end to hostilities."

Excellus took another sip of wine. "Salt both sides with extremists to stoke conflict. When the fighting ruins the value of the local land, we'll buy it up and sell it much later once things settle down."

"Acknowledged." Nelson wrote that down and began reading again. "Exalt Caracalla is continuing his crusade against Plegia, and his forces are driving the Plegians back. It looks like he's about to capture the port of Viipurias."

"Ah, Caracalla. That loveable warmonger. I was afraid he'd mellow once Emmeryn was born. I'm glad to see he hasn't. War is great for business."

"The Plegian government is increasing funding to dark mages in hopes of finding a way to turn the tide. A group of them claimed to have developed a tome that allows instantaneous communication between any two people, regardless of distance, so long as they have the tomes. They're calling it the farakveða tome. Shall we invest? Get in on the profits?"

"Nelson, darling, you think too _small_. Real profit is not made by jumping on a bandwagon. Real profit is made by dominating a market. Contact our mole in the Plegian government and have him lobby to give funding to competitors. Ruin those dark mages, then buy their project from them for far less than it's worth through a shell business. Then we'll make the tomes ourselves." Excellus giggled. "Or better yet, we'll sell the idea to someone else, then do the same thing to them. Infinite profit!"

"Brilliant idea, sir! Brilliant!" Nelson wrote that down and continued reading. "Remember how you had me bribe one of Commodia's guards? It seems that's paid off. He finally gave me a first hand account of what happened at the gold mine."

"Hee hee, I knew Commodia couldn't keep it suppressed forever. So, do tell?"

"The strike was violently put down. Several miners were killed, and the survivors are being shipped to prison."

"Why haven't I heard of this?"

"They aren't being sent to The Rig, sir. They're being shipped to an offshore facility."

"Keeping secrets from me, Commodia?" Excellus seized the paper from Nelson and read it himself. "Ooh, this could be good."

"How so?"

"This will create instability, and instability is another word for opportunity." Excellus' lips curled into an unnerving smile. "This looks promising. _Extremely promising_."

* * *

"They told me I was crazy! They told me it couldn't be done! No one can seize an entire prison ship from the inside out! Ha! Who's laughing now?!" Ruger, standing on the ship's aftercastle, extended his arms towards the rest of the _Mae_ , now nearing the port it had originally set sail from. Thankfully for the miners, Ruger's plan had been put into motion not long after the ship began the journey, and sailing back only took a few hours. "This is officially the biggest thing I've ever stolen!" Ruger turned back to his new friends. "Though not the most valuable."

Walhart looked around uncomfortably. He'd adamantly refused to kill any of the ship's crew, but his fellow miners didn't feel the same way. About half of the ship's crew had been summarily overpowered, executed, and thrown overboard. Walhart could still see the image of the bodies floating in the endless blue. It was as burned into his eyes as the soldier's face. "So you have your ship, little man. Now what becomes of us?"

"Now we disappear." Ruger pointed his finger towards a settlement rapidly eating up the horizon. "That's Kronshtadt. The port this ship departed from."

"Seemed like an alright place when they were dragging us through it in chains." Farber added. "You were still out of it, Walhart."

"We'll be leaving the ship in a rowboat. The city guard obviously wouldn't be very receptive if we sailed right into the port. My friends will take it from here." One of the crooked sailors handed Ruger a sheet of paper. "Oh yeah, this was quite the haul."

"What's that?" Farber asked as he craned his neck over.

"None of your business!"

"It's a shipping manifest." Walhart responded casually as he scanned over it. "It details the cargo, passengers, and crew of the ship."

"How do you know?"

"Because I read it."

Walhart didn't understand why Ruger was looking at him inquisitively until he remembered how rare his relative level of education was amongst commoners. "You can read? Can you write too?"

"I can."

"Hmm. I'll keep that in mind. How'd you learn?"

"My wife is a merchant's daughter. She taught me."

"Heh, well I guess we know who wears the pants in your family."

Walhart scowled. "My wife and I have a cherished partnership a disgusting slime like yourself could never comprehend!"

"Yeesh! What's the world come to that I can't tell a good misogynistic joke in the company of strangers I just killed several guards with. So anyways, I'm guessing you two won't be returning to the mine?"

"What do you think?" Farber said, annoyed. He took a deep breath as he looked over Kronshtadt and thought about the situation. "We can't really go back to Sakdrisi, Walhart. If they recognize us, we'll be right back where we started."

"We didn't do anything wrong." Walhart's mind flashed back to the soldier. "I mean, I was forced to… I didn't mean to… I don't deserve this!"

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it." Ruger actually seemed to have genuine sadness in his voice. "Some men are born princes, and they get everything handed to them. History remembers them for millennia. Others are born in the slums, and they have to do things like this to make a living. They spend their whole lives working just to scrape by, and then they're forgotten… but oh well." Ruger's slippery smile returned. "Hey, if you two need work, I can hook you up with something."

Farber squinted at him. "I don't think we want anything to do with whatever you're offering."

"It's honest. I'd swear on my mother, but I sold her." Ruger looked between the two. "That was a joke. Laugh would you."

Walhart shifted in place. He was in very desperate need of a stable income, after all. "What kind of work?"

* * *

"Ugh, now where did the servants put those fruit preserves? I'm hungry!" Within the royal palace at Kremnica, the seat of Valmese power, lived the King and his family. The youngest was currently in the process of furiously rummaging through a pantry attached to one of the palace's many kitchens. "If I have to wait for dinner, I'll… oh… oh!" The princess's face turned pale as she nervously backed away from the shelf. "AAAAUGH! Adalhaid!"

The King of Valm had two daughters. Adalhaid, fifteen years old now, was heir to the throne. One day the entire Kingdom, such as it was, would be hers. Annalisa, fourteen years old now, had far less expectations on her shoulders, and so was more childish. The differences between the two were made especially evident by their appearances. Adalhaid wore a regal yet practical outfit of both cloth and plate armor colored in the gold and purple that symbolized the Kingdom of Valm. She notably kept her long, navy blue hair loose, letting it flow past her shoulders. Annalisa preferred a simple blue and white form-fitting dress that ended at her thighs and boots that went up past her knees. She notably kept her own navy blue hair tied up in two girlish chin length pigtails.

"Gods!" Adalhaid said to herself as she turned. "I don't think I've ever seen Annalisa run that fast." The monarchs of Valm were expected to be proficient in fencing, and the King hadn't made his eldest daughter an exception. Adalhaid drew an elegant but entirely functional rapier and sprinted towards the pantry. "Sister, are we under attack?!"

"Aah-haaauugh! Haidy!"

The crown princess gripped her sister by the shoulders. "Breathe, Ann. Just calm down. Now tell me what happened!"

"B-bug! Big, scary bug! Huge!"

"A bug?" Adalhaid gave an expression that would generally precede a facepalm. "You're this worked up over a bug?"

"A huge bug! It's hairy, and it's got so many legs! It's a nightmare!"

"You're telling me all this screaming and flailing was over a bug? Surely you jest? I thought there was an intruder!"

"AAAAHH! It's back!" Annalisa darted behind her sister. "Help me!"

"Come now, I don't see why this is so-" The heir to the Valmese throne finally got a good look at the creature herself, and her stoicism melted. "EEEEEK!"

"See! SEE! It's the stuff of nightmares!"

"Nightmares?!" Adalhaid responded as she backed away. "This is like one of Duma's abominations from the legends!"

"Kill it, Haidy! Ki-hill it!"

"I'm not going near that thing!"

"Oh, come on! How are you going to rule the kingdom if you can't kill this bug!"

"Those two things are completely unrelated!"

"You're the oldest! Daddy says you have to take care of your little sister." Annalisa waved towards the critter. "Now go protect me!"

Adalhaid sighed as she nervously approached the unwelcome guest and took a wild swing with her rapier that had no chance to actually hit it. The arthropod responded by turning towards her and jumping out of sight. Neither of the princesses could tell where it landed, and they didn't plan to stick around to find out. They were both on the opposite end of the kitchen a split second later. "Gods!" Adalhaid cried as her rapier quivered in her hands. "It's a demon out of the seven hells!"

"AH-HAAA! It can fly! Naga has forsaken us!"

"What the bloody 'ell is going on here?!"

The young women turned as a man clad in heavy purple and gold plate armor stepped into the kitchen. "Cervantes!" Annalisa cried with glee. "Help us!"

Cervantes was a long ways away from being the high ranking general that the Shepherds would someday face, but unlike Walhart, he was already a soldier. One of the most distinguished knights in Valm, and the pride of its military academy, Cervantes had dedicated his life to serving in the military. He yearned for a life of adventure and honor. A life of glory and ambition. Perhaps someday he'd rise to command his own nation, and then his greatness would be remembered throughout history. At just twenty six years old, Cervantes had already made a name for himself within the kingdom, and he saw the King's offer to serve as an officer in his royal guard and as a personal retainer for his daughters as a major stepping stone for his career. How could he refuse such a generous opportunity?

With every passing year, Cervantes continued to think of more reasons on why he should have.

"You have need of my services, eh wot?" Cervantes smiled as he drew his tomahawk. "The ladies would stand back now. I'll deal with whatever intruder that dares violate the sovereignty of his majesty's palace!"

Adalhaid couldn't suppress a relieved smile herself. "Thank you, Cervantes." She pointed her rapier towards where she'd last seen the supposed monstrosity. "Over there! A huge, massive insect!"

"Ha! No burglar is a match for… wait. Did you say… insect?"

"Yes!" Annalisa answered as she moved from hiding behind her sister to hiding behind him.

"You mean those buggers that crawl along the ground? This isn't some armed lunatic determined to harm you?"

"Just because it isn't armed doesn't mean it's not dangerous." Annalisa stuck her finger out. "There-it-is-there-it-is-there-it-is!"

The critter made its triumphant return and began to skitter towards the group. The princesses clung to the wall as if trying to avoid a passing carriage. Cervantes just stood there in annoyed disbelief. "Honestly, you two. All this commotion over a silly little bug? Besides, this isn't an insect. This is an arachnid. You can tell by the number of legs, and the abdomen is all wrong. Don't you remember your tutoring?"

"Who cares about what kind of demon it is!" Annalisa shot back. "Besides, what arachnid can fly?!"

Sure enough, the arthropod of undetermined ancestry flew directly onto Cervantes' face. The young women froze up in abject terror, but the career soldier simply stood there. If anything Cervantes was just glad it didn't get in his neatly combed light brown hair. His elder self might have had an issue with it getting in his beard…

But this Cervantes was entirely clean shaven. The King himself mandated it.

"Ugh. You two are impossible." Cervantes simply plucked it off and crushed it in his armored gauntlet. "There. Are you happy now?"

"Alright, Cervantes!"

"Yay!" Adalhaid herself exclaimed. "I mean, thank you, Cervantes."

"I heard that. The crown princess of Valm does not say 'yay'. This is unbelievable. You two are almost grown women yet you can't deal with a simple arachnid… thing."

"Don't look so grumpy, Cervantes." Annalisa said playfully. "You're our retainer, so you have to do whatever we say."

Cervantes had been serving the royal family for five years now. What was just a few years from the perspective of a grown man was several years of important psychological and emotional development for the young princesses, and they came to view Cervantes almost like an uncle. Cervantes himself would give his life for the princesses because that was the duty expected of him, but he wasn't sure he actually _liked_ them. "I'm afraid this is my default expression, milady. Besides, true as that may be, I have far more pressing matters to attend to, I tell you h-what. Surely you two can try just a little harder to take care of yourselves?"

"I'm sorry, Cervantes." Adalhaid perked up. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Simply absurd. I need to go inspect the armory for worn and damaged equipment."

"Do you need any assistance?"

"I cannot allow that. You could trip on something or cut yourself. Besides, I'm not sure I trust you around those weapons. You're still very much in training, and I saw how uncoordinated you are with that steel by your side."

Adalhaid hung her head somewhat. "Oh, I see."

"Speaking of which, I'm sure you two have a tutor expecting you, wot? Isn't it about time for your algebra instruction?"

Both of the women scowled. "Argh!" Annalisa whined. "I hate algebra! It's useless!"

"Is not, milady."

"Is too! If in a thousand years they someday have a society with horseless carriages, instant communication, and fancy, insect free metal buildings, I'll bet they still won't need the average person to learn algebra! It's useless!"

"Well you're not the average person, kid, I mean, _milady_. Your education is of great importance."

"Do you use algebra?"

"Well… no… just go."

"Fine."

Adalhaid nodded. "Goodbye, Cervantes, and thank you for dealing with the… intruder."

"Of course, milady. Don't mention it. I mean, you _really_ shouldn't mention it."

The two women walked out of the kitchen. One of Cervantes' subordinates tried to enter the room right as they left, and he respectfully stood to the side as they exited. He then stood at attention by his superior. "Cervantes, sir! Do you need any help?"

Cervantes scoffed. "No. The princesses were just showing me how far they have to go in terms of maturity. At ease, soldier."

"Heh, I know what you mean. Being around them will always give you some kind of excitement."

"Hmph. They shouldn't be acting like this."

"Ah, don't take it so seriously, sir. Why, they're downright adorable."

"They are far too old to be 'adorable'. They take nothing seriously. How can we trust matters of state to people like that?"

"So why don't you whip them into shape?"

Cervantes looked down. "Because they're the _princesses_. My career could be over if they ever became genuinely upset with me. This was supposed to be a way to advance my career, but now I feel that I'll be stuck here in this gilded cage. I've no choice but to be their baby sitter. If I was dismissed, I'd never work as anything but a mercenary ever again. You know, my boy, I've never actually seen a battle. My training is still just that. I've never had a chance to prove myself."

"And you want one, sir?"

"I know it seems strange to wish that the peace would collapse… but I'm a soldier. I need war to truly be a soldier, just as much as the princesses need the feudal system to be considered princesses." Cervantes glanced down to the dead creature. "There has to be something more for me beyond these walls. I can't just stay here until I'm old and gray. I can't die with this thing as my greatest kill."

"Be careful what you wish for, sir. If you spend your life looking for trouble, you'll find it."

Cervantes sheathed his weapon. "Trouble is at the root of ambition. No one ever rose to greatness by rotting in a palace all day."

* * *

Walhart, Farber, several other escaped miners, and Ruger eventually managed to row into the Kronshtadt harbor and slip into the city through the back alleys. Ruger had promised to help them find work, but he didn't take them to anywhere Walhart expected. He quietly whisked them away to a seemingly abandoned structure on the very edge of the city. Stepping inside, the group found themselves in the seating area of a large, arena like venue. Ruger lead them all into a dedicated viewing box, the kind a VIP might spend massive amounts of money on, and from there Walhart could see just how large the arena truly was. The arena itself had actually been dug into the ground, extending far below the ugly, brutalist building that seemed to exist just to hide it. It was large enough for a company to hold exercises on. Surrounding it on all sides were four rows of seating extending all the way to the building's roof. Small holes on the ceiling allowed enough light in to illuminate the pit, but it was still rather dark in places. It was almost as if this was intentional. The darkness would certainly give opportunities for tactical ambushes and blind side attacks. There was enough seating for a few hundred people.

"What… what is this place?" Walhart wondered aloud, in awe of how much effort had been put into both constructing it and hiding it from prying eyes.

Farber scanned the area. "This place isn't exactly known to the city authorities is it?"

Ruger shrugged. "Come now. They aren't that stupid, but a few bribes here and there helps to dull their perception. Besides, the officials see the need for the working classes to have an outlet."

"Outlet?" Walhart asked nervously. "Ruger, what is this?"

Ruger extended his arms out towards the arena. "Welcome, new friends, to _the pits_. Historically speaking, what pray tell do the workers do to blow off steam when booze, whores, and meager pay isn't enough? What will the rich and bored pay massive amounts of money to see? Fight clubs! Underground, unregulated, gladiator matches!"

Farber and Walhart looked at each other as the other miners whispered amongst themselves. "Excuse me what?" Farber spoke up. "This is the work you have for us? A fight club?"

Ruger gestured for them to come to the glass window. Looking towards the arena, Walhart and Farber could see a group of men taking the field. They wore metal armor and carried metal weapons, but their equipment was designed to be more visually interesting than practical. They seemed to be segregated into three color coded teams, and their armor was irregular. For example, one man had an armored right leg and left arm while his left leg and right arm were kept bare. Another had a full, military grade shield and nothing else besides a loincloth. Their weapons seemed random. One had a trident and a net. Another had a short sword. Another had a large hammer. Some of the weapons were so bizarre that Walhart didn't recognize them at all, and some seemed like simple farming and mining tools. Ruger waited until the men began to spar to continue talking. "Hear me out. I'm a very well connected man. I know you all used to work at the Sakdrisi gold mine, and I know how important that mine is to the kingdom. However could they get by without the miners?"

"That's what we thought." Farber groaned.

Walhart frowned. " _That woman_ mentioned something about Einherjar. What are those?"

"Ah." Ruger answered. "Now you're talking about magic. Now I ain't no mage, but I have some knowledge of the more esoteric parts of magic. Einherjar are replications of real people that can be summoned and controlled. They can do anything a human can do. They can even pretend to think and have a personality. Thing is that they don't have souls. They're mindless. They'll do whatever you want. Think about it. Why pay human laborers when Einherjar will work for free, without food or sleep? Why get married when you can screw an Einherjar that will never say no or be too tired? Why have human soldiers when you can make Einherjar of a few good warriors and deploy them _endlessly_? If Einherjar were more widespread, they'd change the face of society, but they're rare. Only a few mages have access to them."

"So how did the government get them?" Farber asked. Walhart scowled as he remembered.

"The Magistrate mentioned the church."

"The church has mages and a bunch of suckers that will willingly donate money. They can recruit Einherjar, and they'll let the government use them." Ruger gave a twisted smile. "Think about how puny this kingdom is. Once the other more prosperous kingdoms realize what Valm is doing, _nothing_ will stop them from doing it too. Chon'sin and Ylisse will automate their farms. Plegia, Roseanne, and Tarsque will automate their port facilities and ships. Ferox and Veslil will automate their own mines. There won't be any jobs left for uneducated workers. There won't be a place in the world for men like you two. They'll finally do it. They'll get rid of all the poor people. Create a nice, pretty world filled with the rich, privileged, and educated. They won't need us. They find us disgusting."

Walhart scowled. "You're just trying to scare us. Make us want to come running to you for work."

"Everything I'm saying makes sense. You know it does."

Farber didn't seem to know what to think. "We wanted honest work."

"And I want to plow our lovely Queen. Maybe with a nice glass of wine on a resort island off the coast of Ylisse. We don't always get what we want. Look, this is good work. It pays well."

"How much?"

"A thousand gold per match as a starting pay, and that's just for participating. It's fifteen hundred if your team wins."

Farber looked back to the practicing gladiators. "But this is so dangerous."

Ruger turned to them. "We don't fight to kill. No one really gets hurt." The three recoiled as they saw one gladiator strike another in the knee with a mace. "Well… no one ever _dies_. We have healers for minor injuries. Killing isn't allowed."

Walhart shook his head. "I'm not a criminal! I will not be part of your schemes, little man!"

"You are a criminal, Walhart. Anyone who resists the law is a criminal. You're a criminal just for participating in that miner revolt. You know, I'm sure Commodia won't forget about the man that threw a rock at her. She's a powerful woman. When she finds out you escaped, she'll look for you."

Walhart squinted at him. "So you really do know what happened?"

"Like I said, I'm well connected. We can shelter you. See, a lot of nobles and government officials come to see the games. They like to see men beat the snot out of each other as much as anyone else. They'll never crack down on this because then _they'd_ get in trouble for watching the games! The law doesn't apply here! We can keep you safe from Commodia." Walhart thought about it, and Ruger knew he was convincing him. He pressed forward, taking a more ideological approach. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with it just because it's illegal. Say we have two men. One desires a woman and doesn't feel like courting her, so he rapes her. The other has to feed his family and doesn't like his pay, so he works with smugglers. Both men are equally criminals, but you can't stand there and tell me they're both equally vile. Don't conflate the law with morality. The law exists for the benefit of the law makers. Surely you have come to suspect what I have long since realized. Kingdoms don't care for their people. The majority cannot legally rise to positions of power, so we do it outside the law. Crime gives us a way out. It lets us make society work for us. You can spend your whole life working in a mine, or on a farm, or in a workshop, and they will _never_ thank you. Why do you think we get men to be gladiators? Why would they fight for the entertainment of other people? It's because here, men can be men! You can fight for your own fortune! Your own glory! Your own name! They'll all cheer for you! Men and women! Peasants and nobles! Rich and poor! Anyone can be someone here! All you have to do is be a good fighter! See out there, you'll spend your life working, and the rich will profit off of your back. Here, you'll fight for yourself! The blood you spill and the money you'll make will be in the name of your own free will and nothing more! Here, unlike out there, people actually rise through merit!"

Walhart still didn't trust Ruger, but he'd be lying to himself if he said that didn't make sense. Walhart thought about it, but Farber didn't. He seemed to have made up his mind. "I'll do it."

"Farber?!" Walhart exclaimed.

"What? He's right. We need work, and this sounds good to me." Farber stared at the practicing gladiators and actually blushed. "All those young men fighting. Brushing up against each other. Sweat dripping from their muscles. It's too good to be true."

Ruger shifted around. "Uh… I think your friend is a little too into this… but at least he said yes. How about you, big guy?"

"I… I don't know. I don't want to fight to entertain other people like some barbarian."

Ruger knew when to give up on one advance and concentrate an another front. "Hmm. You said you knew how to read and write didn't you?"

"Yes?"

"We could still use you. We need writers."

"You do?"

"About two thirds of our income comes from the admission fees. The other third comes from selling writings about the fights. People who didn't get to see the matches will pay to read them, and they help to advertise our next fights. We want good writers to describe the fights in graphic detail. How does that sound?"

"You'd… really pay me for writing?"

"We would."

"How much?"

"We'll cover your expenses, but the only profit you'll see comes from what we make selling the writings. We figure that'll encourage you to be good."

"But I can't stay here. I have a wife in Sakdrisi. I can't leave her."

"Bring her over. We'll shelter your family."

"What if she won't go? Could you… send my profits to her?"

"Sure. I don't see why not."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Well workers don't work very well if they're not being paid. We need you."

Farber smiled at him. "I think this is a real opportunity, Walhart. There's nothing for us out there. I want to do this, and I'd hate for this to be goodbye."

Ruger gave the most slippery smile yet. "Besides, without us there's nothing protecting you from Commodia."

As much as Walhart didn't trust Ruger, he was secretly ecstatic at the idea of being a paid writer. For once in his life he could forge his own destiny with his mind. For once he wouldn't be expendable. "I have one request. I'll need to see my wife one last time."

Ruger nodded. "I'll take that as a yes. We'll get you started as soon as you come back." Ruger motioned to the arena. "And remember, we can always get you work as a gladiator if you change your mind. Who knows. Maybe one day everyone will know the name of Walhart."


	3. The Breaking

"Oh gods, Walhart! Oh ga-hahds! I'm so glad you're safe!" Hildegard finally managed to speak as she pulled her lips from her husband's. Her light brown eyes were stained with tears, and her whole body shivered as he held her. "They wouldn't tell me! Oh gods, Walhart, they wouldn't tell me what happened! The mine was shut down and, and they wouldn't tell me what happened! There were armed men and, and, and bodies, and a soldier was killed and, and oh gods." Hildegard ran her hands down Walhart's cheeks. "Baby, I-I didn't think I'd ever see you again. They, they said almost a dozen miners were killed, and, and they said the survivors were sent to a prison off the coast! The soldiers wouldn't even tell me that! I had to ask around! Oh gods, baby doll, I-I-"

Hildegard looked on the verge of breaking down, but Walhart calmed her by taking her hands in his own. As tall and muscular as he was, his youth hadn't yet been worn away by stress and rock and time, and he could put on a very gentle smile in the rare moments he wanted to. "Everything's fine now, darling."

"Fine?!" Husband and wife went back to kissing and holding each other for almost a minute before Hildegard spoke again. It was as if she were caught between joy at seeing her lost husband again and fear at the lack of control she had over the situation. "You c-call this fine?! Are you a criminal now?! A-are you wanted?!"

"N-no." Walhart answered.

"N-no?" Hildegard responded, mimicking him exactly. She held her hands up. "I-I know I'm stuttering right now. See my hands, Wally? They're shaking! I know I'm a nervous wreck, but you? You don't stutter. Not when you know what you're talking about. You can go on and on about your writings without ever stumbling over your words." Hildegard scowled. "So I know when you're not sure about what you're talking about. Don't hide things from me. If something's wrong, then I need to know!" Walhart hesitated, but Hildegard was right. This wasn't something he should hide, and he knew he couldn't stay in Sakdrisi anyways. Speaking slowly but enunciating carefully, Walhart explained the true fate of the strike and the escape from the prison ship. He didn't leave out the violence, nor did he hide the sketchy nature of his new employment. Hildegard stopped shivering as he finished his story, but her fair skin turned deathly pale as she realized just how much of their life was slipping from their hands. "Walhart… what's happening to us? We're… losing everything!"

"We have each other, Hildy. They can't take that from us." Walhart looked around at the meager dwelling his earnings sustained. "And I've ensured that they won't take our life from us either."

"Right. This… new job." Hildegard still couldn't hide her fear, and it was clear she was searching for comfort in Walhart's eyes. "I don't understand. Y-you're involved in… a fight club?"

"Well… I'm not… in it."

"And you say it's above the law? What makes that true?"

"It's… complicated. The police are bribed and… the officials are part of it… and, uh… I guess it's not that complicated, but they won't come for us."

"That sounds dangerous!"

"But-"

"But it's all you can do. Our illustrious magistrate will have you hunted down if you don't become part of the underground." Hildegard said solemnly. "We… why are things like this now? W-we can't deserve this!"

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it." Walhart answered, mentally kicking himself as he realized he quoted Ruger of all people. "But understand me, Hildy. I will take care of you. You know that."

"I love you, Walhart."

"I love you too-"

"But…" Hildegard took a deep breath. "I don't mean to doubt you, but it doesn't seem like we're in control of anything that's happened to us. You told me yourself the other miners practically made you join in the strike. Then you were shipped away. Now you have to work with men like _that_ just to avoid being hunted down. You're being swept away in this torrent, and you don't know how to stand against it, do you?"

"I'm… trying, Hildy. With everything that I am."

"I know. It's just… I don't know what's going to happen to us."

"Whatever the future holds, I'll provide a life for us, Hildegard. I promise."

Hildegard shook her head. "You spend so much time on those, those damned writings. You go on and on about how things should be, but when everything starts to fall apart, you're… helpless."

Walhart recoiled. "Hildy I'm… doing what I can."

"I…" Hildegard wrapped her arms around Walhart's neck and kissed him again. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair." She gave him the biggest smile yet. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again. It's nothing short of a miracle that you're here now."

"I should be able to give you more, Hildy." Now Walhart choked as his wife slowly calmed down. "I'm sorry, I-I am. You deserve better than what I can give you, and now you're suffering for my mistakes."

"Oh, Wally. I have what I want right here. You make me happier than, than I ever thought I could be." Hildegard disarmed Walhart by cuddling up to him. "Mmm, Wally?"

"Y-yes?"

"You're… definitely not returning to the mine?"

"I can't."

Hildegard bit her lip in a rather suggestive manner as she brought her hands to the back of her husband's head. "Then there's no reason to keep your hair like that anymore. Can I?"

Walhart nodded, and Hildegard gently undid his work mandated hairstyle and let his long, jet black hair cascade down his shoulders. The lion of Valm may not have been leader of a pride yet, but he was already possessed of his mane. Besides having more color, Walhart's hair was even longer than it would be later in life. It was longer than Hildegard's. To further clarify, it was longer than Emmeryn's. Longer than Lucina's. Hell, he could give Cordelia and Severa decent competition. Hildegard giggled as much of it came down around her, and the two shared a moment of bliss. There was still much conflict to be resolved. Much uncertainty. There were arguments to be had over their future in Sakdrisi, and Walhart wouldn't see a single gold coin until he returned to Kronshtadt. None of that mattered now. For a moment, but a flicker in time, it could be as simple as a husband and wife reunited after struggle and hardship.

Struggle would soon come for Walhart, but at least he would have one last peaceful night in his old life.

* * *

Hildegard slowly stirred in her bed at what she thought was the morning light, but she brought her head up in confusion when she realized it was flickering. Turning, Hildegard found her husband sitting upright against the headboard. He'd lit a candle on a bedside table for more light, and his attention was drawn to a worn, dilapidated book. Hildegard couldn't read the cover from her angle, but she didn't need to. A brief glance was enough to recognize it as a book her husband had read cover to cover multiple times. The book, _Peace In Our Time_ , had actually been written by Celica, the legendary Queen of the One Kingdom of Valentia. Written when she was in her late seventies, just a few years before her death, the book detailed Celica's life and her strong belief in achieving peace without fighting. It was the first full book Walhart ever read, and it did a lot to color his perceptions and thoughts. Even now, all these years later, she'd still catch him reading passages from it. "Mmm." Hildegard moaned as she entangled her body with her husband's. Neither of them had anything on, and Hildegard smiled as she felt his bare skin against hers. "Are you reading that thing again?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." Walhart smiled at her. "I was just reading the very last passage of the book. 'In our lives, we will spark. We will flare. We will flicker. We will fade. In the end, all of our tomorrows become yesterdays. Don't let life pass you by. It's never too late to seek a newer world.' You know this is the first book I read?"

Hildegard gave a small smile. "You never let me forget."

"Well I have you to thank for it."

"If only I knew teaching my husband to read would be a double edged sword." Hildegard gave a pouty expression in an attempt to be playful. "He's more interested in his books than he is in me."

Walhart chuckled. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?"

"Well… we're both rested now. You can come over here, and I'll show you how much I missed you." Hildegard giggled. "Again." Walhart returned a smile of his own while lying back down, and Hildegard gently climbed on top of him. The bed sheet fell down and exposed the top half of her body as she moved, and Walhart's smile grew even wider at the sight. "Mmm, and I will miss you, baby."

Hildegard kissed her husband passionately, but he couldn't hold back his doubts completely. "My darling wife, will you truly not come with me to Kronshtadt?"

Hildegard frowned as she rolled over to his side. "We talked about this last night while we were, heh, taking a break." Her expression became more serious. "My father is buried here. I grew up here. Four generations of my family are buried here. I can't leave now. At least not while my mother is still alive. You know how hard the move would be on her. I'm sorry, Walhart. I don't want to live apart, but I just can't leave."

"If it must be so, then I'll come here whenever I can. Commodia be damned. I should be safe if I only stay briefly."

"You'll really miss me?" Hildegard placed her fingers on his bare chest. "Wally? How long have we been married now?"

"Our anniversary will mark ten years."

"And you still love me? Like you did when you were eighteen?"

Walhart seemed to lose himself in Hildegard's eyes, and she felt the same way as she looked into his. Some people may have been disturbed by Walhart's strange eyes, but Hildegard truly loved everything about him, and she felt that love returned in the endless white of his own. "You are the only family I've ever really had. You're the most important person in my life. I love you."

"I love you too." Hildegard got even closer to him and whispered directly into his ear. "But physically, Wally. Do you still look at me like you did when you were a young man?"

"Of course."

Hildegard flashed her bedroom eyes. Perhaps Walhart would have done the same if he had discernible pupils. "Prove it."

She rested her head against Walhart and ran her slender fingers down his chest as he idly and playfully toyed with her hair. Hildegard would have made this moment last forever if she could, but she knew full well her husband would be out of the city for several months within a day or two. Pushing aside those thoughts, she closed her eyes and nibbled on his neck as her fingers made their way further and further under the bedsheets. Walhart responded by bringing a slow, loving kiss to her brow, then cheek. He then brought his mouth to her neck as his own fingers followed familiar trails along the curves of her naked form, and he only became more encouraged as she moaned his name. The passion of the previous night soon carried into the morning.

Unfortunately, the time was a blessing and a curse. So intently focused was Walhart on his wife that he failed to realize something else very important to him had gone missing.

* * *

Walhart's mother-in-law, Gloria, was a simple woman. A merchant's daughter herself, Gloria had been raised by a deeply conservative family, and her parents only ever asked two things of her. Marry into a wealthy family to increase the prestige of her own, and go to church. Hildegard's father wasn't everything Gloria's own parents wanted him to be in the end, but Gloria had dutifully gone to church like a good Valmese citizen her whole life. Hildegard herself only occasionally attended with her mother, and Gloria's son-in-law could never be bothered, but the aging widow would never miss a sermon—especially not one delivered through the mesmerizing voice of Father Tyranus, the most renowned priest in Sakdrisi's Church of the Divine Dragons.

It wasn't appearances that made Tyranus such a captivating speaker. Beneath his ornate gold, white, and green robes, Tyranus was a scrawny, almost sickly middle aged man with deep seated wrinkles and thinning orange hair. He kept his gunmetal gray beard trimmed and groomed his rather obnoxious handlebar moustache carefully, but he could otherwise be mistaken for a haggard beggar if you caught him without his uniform. Tyranus was a very ignorable man appearance wise, but it only took so much as a single word from his melodic, gentle voice to capture your attention. Gloria could listen to him talk for hours, and she wasn't alone if the size of the congregation was any indication.

"My children." Tyranus continued as he neared the end of his sermon. "I see you seated before me. Tired. Desperate. Perhaps terrified." Gloria listened in a trance like state as her cataract choked eyes followed the man's every move. She lost herself in the rhythmic rising and falling of his voice. She'd say it was as if it were falling into step with the pulsing of her soul. "I see you men hiding your uncertainty behind false stoicism. I see you women clutching your babes to your breasts. You're thinking what, I wonder. That the Divine Dragons have turned against us? The crops fail. The mine our city was built around has weathered violence and rioting. We are at our precipice, and so you turn to the gods. To Mila, the Earth Mother, who bestowed the primitive people of Valentia with civilization. To Tiki, the Voice of Naga, who stood with humanity against Medeus and the armies of Dolhr. To Naga, the Divine Dragon King, who died a physical death only to be reborn in incorporeal form such that her benevolence could forever guide us along the path." Tyranus brought his emerald eyes to the crowd, and flecks in his irises burned with intensity as he spoke. "And yet you believe that because the Divine Dragons have not solved your problems for you, your faith in them is misplaced. You cry, 'Why have these supposedly benevolent gods forsaken us! Where is Mila! Where is Tiki! Where is Naga!' I say to you, what have _you_ ever done for the _gods_? We must look to the path Naga asks us to walk. This path is long and wrathful. It is red and choked with rust, but walk it ye must. It is a test for the faithful. My children, we have grown complacent. We do not live our lives as Naga intended, but instead use the bounty this earth has provided to indulge our decadence. We must prove our worth to the gods by living pure lives. We must turn on those responsible for our suffering. Prove our righteousness! Our land is plagued by these deviants. By sorcerers and witches who use blasphemous dark magic for selfish gain. By corrupt and greedy merchants that horde wealth from the common man. By unscrupulous sellswords who trade human life for coin. By the perverse who disgrace our marriages with their sexual degeneracy. By the physical and mentally feeble who present themselves as nothing more than mouths to feed. By those who disgrace our liege, the King himself, with their selfish thoughts of rebellion and societal reform. My children, Valm bleeds! Flogged by our sedition and greed! Our suffering is the Divine Dragon's whip! Chastisement for our perversion! We must walk the path as we are intended to! Only then will we know peace!"

Tyranus' sermon was over, and he stepped aside as a lesser priest, Father Nominus, prepared to speak. Nominus was a young priest, with blue eyes and light green hair kept slicked back by oil. Gloria found him considerably less interesting, and her thoughts drifted to the notebook she'd brought with her. She clutched it tightly, hoping that Tyranus would be pleased with it.

Church ended within that hour, and Gloria patiently waited for most of the crowd to thin out before seeking out the priests. Tyranus and Nominus were speaking to each other, but they both smiled warmly to Gloria as she approached the podium. She gave them a respectful bow. "Fathers."

"Ah, Gloria, my child." Tyranus spoke warmly as he gently placed his arm around her shoulder and welcomed her to step closer. "So good to see you again. Tell me, how is Hildegard?"

Tyranus took the time to get to know the members of his congregation, and he would always remember family members and important events. It made people like Gloria feel appreciated, and that made them come back. "Oh, she's still so worried about Walhart."

Tyranus became distraught, or at least he looked that way. "I'm sure your son-in-law will turn up safe, if it is Naga's will."

"And he has, Father. He came back to us just last night. Oh, Hildy was so happy."

"Wonderful. How is he?"

"Well I didn't really get to talk to him. He and Hildy disappeared into their room so quickly. I think they spent hours praying. I could hear her calling to the gods all night."

Nominus shifted around uncomfortably. "Well that's… more than I ever needed to know about some peasant's love life."

Gloria didn't get it. "Love life?"

"Nothing." Tyranus looked her over. "We are always happy to be graced with your presence, Gloria, but I noticed you passed over the collection plate when it was passed around?" Tyranus' concern was more obviously feigned now, but Gloria still didn't see through it. "Is everything alright at home?"

"I'm sorry, Father. Hildegard has been insistent that we cut down on our expenses."

"Oh, I understand. The glorious light and benevolence of the Divine Dragons can be stayed until your financial situation improves. The gods think nothing less of you, I assure you."

Gloria frowned. "Wait! I don't have any money, but I was wondering if you'd accept another kind of donation?" Gloria handed Tyranus the notebook.

One of her son-in-law's treatises.

"Hmm." Tyranus flipped through it. "A handwritten book?"

"My son-in-law wrote that. He's always writing books like that. I know it's not much, but it was all I had to spare. Could you find some use for it?"

"Your generosity is unparalleled, Gloria. Worry not. We will gladly accept anything you can give until your finances are stable. Please, take your time."

"Oh, thank you, Father. I promise I'll return with gold as soon as I can."

"We know you will."

The priests nodded to Gloria as she left, but they became disinterested in the book as soon as she was out of sight. "Psh." Nominus shook his head. "Who does she think she is? What can we do with a handwritten book? We can't sell that, and it won't help us pay for our expenses."

"The lowborn don't always have much for us, Nominus." Tyranus said as he flipped through it. "We have to smile and nod at whatever they bring us. That makes them feel like they matter. You just use subtle suggestions to ensure that they eventually return with gold."

"Whatever." Nominus began to walk away, but he turned to find Tyranus wasn't following him. He'd inexplicably become invested in the writing. "Are you actually reading that?"

Tyranus' expression twisted with worry. "Nominus, read this." The lesser priest reluctantly complied, and his own eyes widened as he did.

"This is political! It's an attack on our society! On the very concept of feudalism!"

"It's a polemic. It's _heretical_. This is the very kind of dissent and sedition I tell my flock to be wary of, and that half-senile woman has been nurturing it within her own home."

"She said her son-in-law wrote this, didn't she? This… Walhart?"

"Yes. It gets worse. Walhart worked in the mine, and he would have been sent to prison when it was shut down." Tyranus stroked his moustache. "But Gloria said he recently returned. He must have escaped. He'll be angry with society now, and he may try to spread these writings."

"What are the odds of that?"

"Low, but I don't take chances. We must find this Walhart, and we must put an end to this."

"You mean… get rid of him?"

"We are not men of the sword, Nominus. We are men of the gods. We need only guide him back to the path. Come. We must find him, and we must save this wayward soul. Naga wills it."

* * *

Walhart spent only two days with his wife before returning to Kronshtadt. He yearned to stay longer, but he knew the city guard would eventually recognize him if he stuck around, and he wouldn't see a coin until he began work. As hard as it was to leave, he had no choice.

Ruger hadn't been exaggerating the popularity of the gladiatorial games. Each and every match drew in hundreds of spectators, and Walhart very quickly learned to focus on his writing even through the deafening roars of the crowd. Walhart's job was to produce detailed descriptions of each fight, but that task actually entailed multiple steps. The first step was to actually observe the games. Walhart detested the violence, but he had no choice. He didn't just have to watch the gladiators. He had to scan them. Study them. Keep track of their every move. Chronicle their every injury. Describe their every tortured scream. Much like a modern university student, he eventually learned to take short but detailed notes. He had to write quickly to keep track of everything.

The particular game that Walhart was observing now involved Farber. Still a fairly new gladiator, Farber was rather uncoordinated, especially in the team matches, but he was rapidly proving his natural fighting prowess. The match having just started, Farber looked over the crowds until he finally found Walhart. Farber waved at his old friend like a young child in a play might towards their parents, and Walhart waved back, but Farber's ignorance of his surroundings was punished harshly as a mace struck him in the back. Farber recovered quickly, and he spun around to kick out the other gladiator's knee before striking him in the side of his head with his arm shield. Walhart desperately worked to keep track of all this, even as his gut churned with the prospect of detailing his close friend's every injury.

Following the match's conclusion came the second step. No one writer could keep track of everything that happened in a game, so about a dozen watched each one. They then got together to compare notes. This was done to ensure accuracy, but it was also done to make the writings more sensational. After all, the writings had to be exciting to sell and attract attention for the next game. There was nothing wrong with stretching the truth of what actually happened to make a good story. The same tactics hopeful YouTubers and ad-ridden clickbait sites use to attract viewers nowadays were alive and well in the Middle Ages. They were just written, was all.

Once the writers agreed on how the game would be described, they would spend the next several hours actually writing it. Anything and everything written had to be done by hand in the age before the printing press, and it took a long time for the writers to slowly produce enough copies of the writings to be widely distributed. Each match was only described in a few thousand words, but Walhart had to reproduce that over, and over, and over. His hand burned at the end of each work day.

It wasn't all bad though. Walhart proved his writing chops as the writings began to sell, and the money slowly started to trickle in. Ruger kept his word and sent the money to Hildegard and Gloria in Sakdrisi. That left Walhart with nothing to spend on luxuries for himself, but he had more than enough to do on his free time. With regular access to pen and ink and finally possessed of a job that didn't require him to constantly be on his feet, Walhart was able to write for himself like never before. Most of the other writers didn't care. They had other things to occupy their time with.

But there was one other writer who quickly became enamored with Walhart's work. Funnily enough, they'd met before.

"Looks like you're almost finished with the writings of the last match, Walhart. Are you going to start on your treatise now?"

Walhart smiled to himself. "You underestimate me, Gracchus. I finished my work hours ago. I'm just now completing my newest treatise. I started this one before the mine was shut down."

"Really? Can I read?"

* * *

Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation

Author: Walhart

In science, there is the concept of a taxonomy. A taxonomy is concerned with classifying organisms. It allows scientists to place them into neat little orders from which there isn't supposed to be any deviation. The ugly truth of our society is that it too is built on a taxonomy. It is an unofficial, unwritten taxonomy, but it is very real. Those who live in a feudal society can no more choose to be independent of it than the sun can choose not to revolve around our world. This taxonomy classifies human beings according to class. The divisions between these classes are the basis of the feudal system, and this system is in turn built on inequality between the classes. There are constant adjustments to the feudal system. Families occasionally rise in prominence, but more commonly they fall. Sometimes the evolving economy causes new social classes to rise. However, every revision, every reinterpretation, of the feudal system takes place within a rigid framework of social stratification. Nothing must threaten the core philosophy of feudalism—birth and lineage as the organizing principle of society.

People don't question feudalism because they don't know any better. It's been that way since Alm and Celica's time. If you could step outside of society and look at things objectively, you would see that it is a prison. It is a prison full of willing people. They choose to be a part of it. Peasants choose to prop up their lords through their labor. Soldiers choose to fight for greedy and self serving monarchs. They don't know any better. Feudalism has created a society without social mobility. The nobles would tell you that people wouldn't know how to do anything else. If you were hurt, would you want a doctor that used to be a farmer? Do you want your buildings designed by the people who did the bare minimum amount of work each day to make them? It's true that it would be traumatic if there was more social mobility than there is now, but the nobles have created the conditions that have given rise to this culture of suspicion, and they have done so deliberately, because it reinforces the status quo. It fosters division, and division can be used to control the population.

And that is why, when you see a stranger, you don't think, "Who is that person?" You think, "What does that person do?" You don't think, "What are their hopes? Their dreams? Their ambitions?" You think, "Who does that person work for? How much money do they have? What is their lineage? What is their socioeconomic status relative to me? Are they more important than me, or am I more important than them?"

Religion is so frequently used by the churches to justify the system. If you were born a farmer, they say it was Naga's will. The King was born as a monarch because that was Naga's will. If Naga intended more for you, than you would have been born in a different social class. They use your faith in the gods to justify the status quo, and to question society is therefore to question the gods. If someone was challenging feudalism, they may be looked at sympathetically by the common masses. However, if you paint that person as a heretic, or an atheist, or a blasphemer, then they'll lose sympathy with the common masses.

The truth about feudalism is that it is entirely about control. An educated, multi-skilled populace is an empowered populace. It is harder for an oligarchy to reign over this populace. They stunt our potential to control us. They keep us stuck in the same jobs for generations. Deny education to commoners. Prevent us from leaving our lands without the permission of the feudal lord, who we are expected to be grateful for because they gave us the chance to work. This is all about controlling us.

And what if you support the system? What if you believe the lords are more intelligent than the rest of us, and that they should control us? What if you believe that Naga intended the world to be this way? I say, ask yourself this. Who decides on the way things are? Who is benefited by feudalism? Always it is the ones in power. They try to convince us that it is necessary for the commoners, but they are the ones who benefit. In an abusive, unequal relationship, the abuser will always tell you his or her abuse is anything but, and that it is necessary love. You could never fix an abusive relationship by only consulting the abusive party. That is what the feudalists do, however. They say that they should think for us. Why should it be this way? That is a question that the monarchs, and clergymen, and nobles, and lords fear most of all, because they know the system would collapse if people arrived at the answer. Why should things be this way? They don't have to be.

As a child I was taught that the nobility was just and kind. We all worked for them and dedicated our lives to them because they would protect us and guide us. They were supposed to care about us and ensure our prosperity. This is the basis of feudalism. The working classes are bound to the nobles. We support them, and in turn they help us. We work their lands, fill their cities with trade and commerce, and fight in their armies, and in turn they provide us with opportunities to make a living. Specifically they provide us with the opportunity to work _their_ land. The opportunity to make _them_ money. The opportunity to fight in _their_ armies. We are tied to them, but we do not need them. The working classes provide everything that society needs, and the nobles reap the rewards. The nobility keep us tied to them to control us. They don't act in our interests. The great fantasy of history isn't that strong men and women exist, for there have been many heroes of legend. No the fantasy is that the lords and nobles care about the common man. The system is rigged.

It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the offerings. Where there's a service, there's someone being served. Any man that speaks to you of personal sacrifice for the greater good is speaking of slaves and masters, and he views himself the master. The working classes have everything that is needed for the maintenance and continued preservation of civilization. The nobility will never truly respect the poor because our feudal society is built on inequality, and respect only exists among equals. The working classes don't need the nobility. The division of labor could be achieved in a system where the people control the wealth they produce for society. It stands to reason that the necessity of the existence of the privileged order, a group of enlightened nobles who must rule over the common man, is a fallacy. The nobility declares that without help from this order all the arduous tasks in the service of our civilization would go unfulfilled. Not only is this a lie, however, but without this privileged order the higher posts could be infinitely better filled by those rising to the posts through strength and merit rather than through birth. The fact that the privileged have succeeded in rising to these posts is a hateful inequity towards the generality of citizens and an act of treason to our fellow man. Who is bold enough to maintain that the people, particularly of the working classes, do not have within themselves everything needed to constitute a nation? The working classes are men and women with their arms in chains! If the privileged order was removed, the chains would be broken. The working classes would be free. Our society would not be something less but something more! What is the working class then! All! All, but an all that is fettered and oppressed! Nothing would go well without working men and women, but everything would go considerably better without the privileged order.

Be happy in your work, they say. Be grateful for the opportunity. Be thankful for the system. Mind your betters, for they think for you. Enough. Reject the system. It stands to reason that the necessity of a privileged order is a fallacy. To quote the legendary Queen Celica, "In our lives, we will spark. We will flare. We will flicker. We will fade. In the end, all of our tomorrows become yesterdays. Don't let life pass you by. It's never too late to seek a newer world."

* * *

Walhart handed his completed work to Gracchus, and the man read intently. Walhart had never really been introduced to Gracchus before he started working in Kronshtadt, but their lives had intertwined before. Gracchus was the very same miner whose legs were cut off just before the strike. The son of a failing merchant family, not so different from Hildegard, Gracchus had received an education and was quite proficient in reading and writing. None of that could stop his family from going out of business, and so Gracchus was forced to earn a living as a miner. We all saw how that ended for him. Leaning back in his chair and endeavoring to prevent the stumps that remained of his legs from shifting his weight too far forward, Gracchus looked into Walhart's eyes as he set the treatise down. "Well?" Walhart asked eagerly. "What did you think?"

Gracchus willingly worked as a proofreader for Walhart. The former miner was infuriated by how the foreman had treated him. In his mind, Walhart's writings represented the change he desperately wanted to see in society for the lower classes. He enjoyed reading Walhart's work, and his amazement now was made apparent even through the dim candlelight that illuminated their small cabin. "Walhart… that was beautiful."

"You really think so?"

"I know that what I'm about to say sounds like an exaggeration, but it's not. If all the men and women of the lower classes could read, and if they read this, there would be a social revolution that would topple all the kingdoms of the world within a month. Finally we could build a society _by_ the people, _for_ the people. Walhart, people need to read this."

"How could I distribute it?"

"We'll write copies together. We'll do it on our free time."

"You… would do that for me?"

"I would." Gracchus brushed his dark blonde hair away from his face as he looked solemnly down to the lower half of his body. "Things have to change, Walhart. They just have to."

Walhart smiled. "Thank you, Gracchus. I'm honored. Still, do you have any criticisms for me? I'll never get any better if I only receive praise."

Gracchus thought. "You need to change how you think about your writing. What do you want, Walhart? Why do you write?"

"Like you said, I want to change things. I want to inspire people."

"But you'll never inspire people by just being an anonymous writer. I like how you gave yourself credit as author, but we need to do more. We need to put your name out there. The ugly truth of our species is that most people want to be lead. They want to be controlled by a benevolent guiding hand. That's why so many people have to turn to religion and gods to find meaning and morality. They can't find it by themselves. They just can't. Deep down, most men and women subconsciously want nothing more than to crawl back into their mother's womb and go back to a time where everything was given to them."

"Uh… okay?"

"People want to be lead Walhart, so _lead_ them. Don't rely on the collective. Make yourself a figurehead. Represent your views. Give them a face."

"Hmm. How could I do that?"

Gracchus shrugged. "We'll have to figure that out."

* * *

Four months passed. Walhart, Gracchus, and the other writers continued to dutifully produce writings of the gladiator fights, and the former Sakdrisi miners continued to produce copies of _Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation_ whenever they could. Gracchus was entirely in charge of distributing Walhart's writing throughout the city. He never told Walhart exactly how he was doing it, but the copies they made did disappear, and Walhart couldn't see why Gracchus would lie to him. Sure enough, the copies were starting to slowly trickle through Kronshtadt, and from there a few copies would spread back to Sakdrisi. This would mark the beginning of Walhart's new life.

And the end of his old one.

Walhart returned to Sakdrisi for a personal visit later that month, the first time off he'd gotten since he started working. Farber came with him, and he'd make time for the two of them later, but for now all that mattered was seeing his family again. Husband and wife embraced tightly within moments of Walhart's return to his small home. It was a happy moment, but everything seemed strange to Walhart. Hildegard only had an expression of joy on her face, but she also seemed withdrawn and nervous. Gloria stood nearby and embraced her son-in-law, but she wore a look of excitement beyond anything her fading mind normally registered.

"Oh, Wallace. Those four months without you here felt endless." Gloria said with a smile as she let go and looked up to him. "Welcome home."

Hildegard cleared her throat. "Heh, Walhart, mother. His name is Walhart."

"Oh, I'm… sorry."

"It's quite alright." Walhart responded as he bent over and kissed her forehead. "It's good to see you, Gloria." Walhart turned back to his wife, but she seemed especially anxious. She rubbed her hands uneasily and couldn't always meet his gaze. "Darling? Is something wrong?"

"I… oh, Walhart. I-I don't know what to say."

"Just tell him, dear. Walhart, Hildy has something she'd like to say."

"Mother, please! This is delicate."

"He deserves to know as soon as possible."

Walhart looked between the two uneasily. "Is something wrong?"

Hildegard just stood there for a few seconds, fiddling with her hands and taking deep breaths before she could speak again. "No, Wally. Nothing's wrong. I just… I'm not sure how to tell you. I thought about writing you a letter, but this just seemed like something I should tell you in person. Now that you're here I-I don't know how to tell you. I… oh please be happy."

"Hildegard?"

"Walhart… after all these years, Naga has finally blessed us." Walhart examined his wife more closely, and his eyes lit up as it finally began to dawn on him. Hildegard's natural freckles were darker, and her face was beginning to show symptoms of melasma—the mask of pregnancy. A quick glance to her abdomen confirmed it. Hildegard wasn't so big as to immediately catch the eye, but her belly was beginning to stick out. Walhart looked back to her face to see her eyes gleaming with relief as she realized he understood. "A child, Walhart. Naga has finally given us a baby."

 _Naga had nothing to do with it._ Walhart thought as he stepped forward, but he put on a smile. "That's… that's…"

"You're happy… right?" Hildegard swallowed from nervousness. "R-right?"

"Oh, Hildy." The two embraced more tightly than ever as Gloria looked on with a smile. "T-this is wonderful! This is WONDERFUL!"

Hildegard giggled as her anxiousness faded. "Oh, Wally."

"I love you, darling!"

"I love you too, baby!"

The two kissed for almost a minute before Walhart could bring his lips even centimeters from Hildegard's. "I-I can barely believe my ears. I'm going to be a father! Hildy, tell me you've been receiving the money I've sent you."

"We have."

Walhart smiled from ear to ear. "It should be more than enough to raise a child, and we'll never have to worry about losing the house now. Things are finally working out. This is… I can barely believe it."

Hildegard ran her hands through his hair, and the two just held each other for a few minutes before she spoke again. "I have another surprise for you. Don't worry about the cost of dinner tonight. We'll be celebrating with venison."

"H-how?!"

"It was free! The butcher asked about my stomach, *clears throat* somewhat rudely, and I told him about the baby. He gave me the meat for free! Isn't that thoughtful of him? I could barely believe it."

"It was very kind of him." Gloria chimed in. "Hildegard, remember to send him a thank you letter."

"Yes, mother! I've done that." She responded, slightly annoyed. "This is the third time I've told you this."

"Oh, I… really?"

Walhart cleared his own throat and changed the subject back to the meal. "He gave you venison without charging you? That's… I don't know what to say."

"Come on, Wally. Don't look a gift deer in the mouth, heh. This is special. I'll cook it up for us, huh? We'll have the best damn meal we've had in a long time. We have two things to celebrate now. You coming back." Hildegard rubbed her own stomach. "And another member of our family coming into our lives."

"That sounds wonderful. There's just one problem."

"Huh?!"

Walhart kissed her again. "You've been cooking for four months. I'll prepare it. Just relax."

She raised an eyebrow in a kind of playful taunt. "You can cook venison?"

As rare as it was that Walhart could eat it, there were few things he enjoyed more. "Well, I guess you'll just have to find out."

* * *

If you asked Walhart how he felt about the meal the three enjoyed that night as soon as he was finished, he'd have told you it was one of the best in his life. As time went by, however, his stomach became increasingly disgruntled with his decision. Hildegard eventually started to feel it too, and Walhart became increasingly worried about the quality of the meat. Their worry became panic after Gloria fell unconscious and crumpled right out of her chair. She hit her head on a table as she fell, but that didn't wake her. She was out cold, and no amount of attention from Walhart or Hildegard changed that. She failed to respond to any kind of stimulus, and they had to constantly check her pulse just to assure themselves that she hadn't died.

Hildegard became weary, and she passed out within ten minutes of her mother. Walhart became more and more alarmed, but then that feeling inexplicably became replaced by calm. No, he wasn't calming down. He was getting drowsy. Walhart was sure something had been done to the meat now, and he too would soon pass out. Mustering his last bit of strength, Walhart made sure to put the women to bed before he succumbed. He remembered making it back to the living room before the same fate befell him.

"Ah, my child. You're finally awake."

Walhart gradually regained consciousness to find himself lying on a table. He reflexively tried to rub his face, but his hands wouldn't move. He then tried to jerk free as he realized he was being restrained, but the bindings wouldn't budge. The severity of the situation became increasingly known to him as his mind cleared, but no amount of struggling helped. He couldn't even cry out as his mouth had been gagged. All he could do was turn his head to see a moustached man he didn't recognize. "Mmph!"

"Shh. Don't panic. You don't know me, Walhart, but I know you. Your mother-in-law is a faithful member of my flock. She's told me so much about you." The man stepped closer to Walhart's head. His restraints kept him from looking up, and he could only turn to keep the man in his sight. "I am Father Tyranus. I am a man of the gods, and I am here to help you. To heal you."

"Mph? Mmph!"

"Shh. There, there. I'm here for you now." Walhart's mind was becoming hazy again, and he wasn't sure why. "I know what you're thinking. Why did this happen? Was it the meat? It was, I'm afraid. I had to bribe the butcher into giving you poisoned meat. Don't fear for your wife and mother-in-law. They'll only be asleep. Soon you too will be sleeping in your bed. You'll forget all about what happened here. You see, Walhart, you may not look sick, but you have a malady of the mind. Those are so easily hidden. Perhaps that's for the better. People don't want to see them. They remind us of our fragility. Still, it is my job to help those who have strayed from Naga's path. I'm afraid your illness has taken hold. Immediate action had to be taken."

Walhart felt his desire to struggle melting away, and his anger was fading. There was no reason for this. He still had much to be enraged about. "Mph?"

"You see, your mother-in-law used to always donate to our humble church, but your wife prevented her from doing that recently. She's such a selfless woman. She insisted on giving us something, even if she couldn't donate gold. You know what she gave us? One of your handwritten books." Walhart's eyes widened, and his fear intensified as Tyranus held up a copy of _Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation_. "It seems you've been trying to stir up sedition and heresy. Oh, my child. You've strayed so far from Naga's light, but I won't abandon you."

Walhart struggled one last time before his urge to resist faded completely. "Mmph!"

"They tell me you're something of a thinker. That you're so frustrated with the way things are. I'm sorry you feel that way, but I can make you happier. You see, I can cure your illness. Protest is a form of sickness. Individualism is a disease. Those who challenge the status quo challenge the will of the gods. Don't worry. The gods still love you, and I can help you realize that things are the way they are for a reason. Once I've taken the edge of your intellect and straightened you out, you'll be so much happier with what you have. You'll be more passionate with your wife. You'll be a better father. Everything will be better this way. Just listen to my voice."

Walhart felt like he was losing control of his thoughts. The very sanctity of his mind was being violated. He was forced to think back to his treatise, and it became harder and harder to remember.

* * *

Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation

Author: Walhart

In science, there is the [gibberish] classifies human beings according to class. The divisions between these classes are the basis of the feudal system, and this system is in turn built on inequality between the [gibberish] must threaten the core philosophy of feudalism—birth and lineage as the organizing principle of society.

People don't [gibberish] a farmer? Do you want your buildings designed by the people who did the bare minimum amount of work each day to make them? It's true that it would be traumatic if there was more [gibberish] the population.

And that is why, when [gibberish] important than them?"

Religion is so frequently [gibberish] at sympathetically by the common masses. However, if you paint that person as a heretic, or an atheist, or a blasphemer, then they'll lose sympathy with the common masses.

The truth about [gibberish] because they gave us the chance to work. This is all about controlling us.

And what if you [gibberish] the ones who benefit. In an abusive, unequal relationship, the abuser will always tell you his or her abuse is anything but, and that it is necessary love. You could never fix an [gibberish] be this way? They don't have to be.

As a child I was [gibberish] in our interests. The great fantasy of history isn't that strong men and women exist, for there have been many heroes of legend. No the fantasy is that the lords and nobles care about the common man. The system is rigged.

It stands to [gibberish] is built on inequality, and respect only exists among equals. The working classes don't need the nobility. The division of labor could be achieved in a system where the [gibberish] have within themselves everything needed to constitute a nation? The [gibberish] privileged order.

Be happy in [gibberish] Queen Celica, "In our lives, we will spark. We will flare. We will flicker. We will fade. In the end, all of our tomorrows become yesterdays. Don't let life pass you by. It's never too late to seek a newer world."

* * *

Walhart finally understood what was happening. Tyranus was literally _erasing_ his thoughts, and there was nothing he could do about it. A tear fell down his cheek as Tyranus got uncomfortably close to him, whispering in his ear. "You see, Walhart, I have a gift. I can influence the minds of others with my voice. My parents tell me that when I was a babe, my cries _could not_ be ignored. As a child I convinced adults to bring me sweets, and as a young man I made women very _receptive_ to my advances. Now, as I enter the twilight years of my life, I've found my true calling. I use the gift Naga has bestowed me to spread her glory and benevolence. I love you, my child, and I'll help you with my gift. Don't think of your political beliefs. They only bring hardship and strife. Think of your wife. Your unborn child. You'll be with them soon. Your life will be much simpler, and you'll be so much happier. All you have to do is listen to my voice."

* * *

Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation

Author: Walhart

In science [gibberish] of society.

People don't [gibberish] population.

And that [gibberish] them?"

Religion [gibberish] masses.

The truth [gibberish] controlling us.

And what if [gibberish] have to be.

As a child [gibberish] is rigged.

It [gibberish] privileged order.

Be [gibberish] world."

* * *

Walhart moaned and cried profusely as his life's work was torn from his head. If Tyranus had been given ten more minutes, Walhart would have lived the rest of his life as a simple worker stripped of the will and intelligence that made him so dangerous. Fortunately for Walhart, (though the Shepherds may not agree it was such a good thing) he wasn't able to continue. "Tyranus!" Nominus cried as he burst into the room. "We need to leave!"

"What?!" Tyranus spat. The problem soon became apparent to him as he felt the heat follow Nominus through the door.

"There's a damned fire! The entrance is almost cut off! We need to leave!"

Tyranus squirmed uncomfortably as the heat penetrated the room, and he reluctantly nodded. With a last look at Walhart, Tyranus followed Nominus out of the room, leaving the helpless former miner stuck to the table. Though he was unable to lift his head and look out the door, Walhart could feel that the fire was very real. _Gods no!_ He thought as his panic returned. _Not like this! Not before I see my child. No, gods no!_

"Walhart!" The flames that penetrated into where Tyranus had been subsided, and Walhart turned his head as much as he could as a man entered the room. He was cut free from his bindings a moment later, and he looked up to see Farber. "What the hell were they doing?"

"Farber!"

"I was going over to your house to see if you wanted to… I don't know… spend time together. I was… lonely." Farber cleared his throat. "That's when I saw them dragging you away."

"Did you start this fire?! How did you get through it?!"

Farber flicked his hand, and the fire around the room was extinguished. "They've been teaching me magic. It'll make me more interesting in the pit, they say. I have quite a talent for it." Farber helped Walhart to his feet. "But I didn't start this fire. It's been raging throughout this part of Sakdrisi. It started less than an hour ago! Now what happened to you?"

Walhart groaned. "I was poisoned. I swear I am _never_ eating meat again." He froze. "This part?! My house! My family!" He furiously grabbed Farber by the shoulders. "Get me there! GET ME THERE!"

Farber didn't even hesitate. He simply nodded and lead Walhart through the building, willing away the blazes as they sprinted through the city.

* * *

The fire by Walhart's neighborhood had largely died out by the time the two reached his house, and Farber was able to extinguish what remained. The sight almost made Walhart wish he never left the table. Walhart's home had never been much to talk about, but it was his. He'd worked his entire adult life to maintain it. To see its burned and mutilated framework now was a blow to his pride, but the horrible scene that awaited him inside rended his very soul.

The poisoned meat had prevented Hildegard and Gloria from waking up, even as the flames consumed the building. They would've been unconscious when they died, but that was cold comfort to Walhart now. "NO! NO, NO, nO, No, NO-NO-nO- _ **nO**_ - _ **No**_!" Walhart's voice became pitchy and barely coherent as he paced back and forth. The wall between the bedroom he shared with his wife and the bedroom his mother-in-law slept in had burned down, and Walhart could freely walk between the remains of both women. " _ **NOOOAAAUUUGH**_! WHY?! Naga, WHY?! There are no gods, Farber! How could the gods let this happen?! Why?! WHY?!" Walhart began repeatedly striking at the framework of his house until the already weakened wood was torn apart. "WHYAAAUUGHH?!"

"Walhart! C-calm down! Breathe! BREATHE!"

Walhart kicked the burned out remains of a bedside table with enough force to both disintegrate it and send it flying. "WHO DID THIS?! WHO DID THIS?! _**WHO DID THIS?!"**_

"Please, Walhart! Stop! You'll hurt yourself!"

"I DON'T WANT TO LIVE!" In his rage Walhart actually lunged at Farber and almost knocked him over. It said a lot about their friendship that Farber simply took the hit and got back up. There wasn't any anger or even fear in his eyes as he turned back to Walhart. He just returned a sympathetic look. Walhart shook in place as his face contorted with sorrow, and Farber held him up as he fell into him. "Oh gah-hah-haaads! There are no gods, Farber! How could they let this happen?! There's no justice in this world! There's no meaning in this world! I don't want to live anymore!"

"Walhart, I can't, I can't possibly imagine what you're going through, but I'm here for you. I'm here for you!"

"It's not… I can't… it's not… it's not-"

"Was this your place?" Walhart and Farber turned to see an older man walking over to what had been his door. "Gods. I thought my place had it bad."

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Walhart roared. The man took a step back.

"Hold on! I live just a block away. I was checking out the neighborhood. Seeing how far the fire spread."

Farber stepped in front of Walhart. "Do you have any idea what started this?"

The man shrugged. "It's too early to know, but I heard rumors. A few people told me a drunk mage in the city guard was throwing around fireballs trying to impress a prostitute or something. No one can prove that, but I believe it. Captain Decius lets his men get away with anything. He only moves if Commodia tells him to."

In that moment, all of Walhart's pain and sorrow became rage. Now he had a name. Someone to blame. "DECIUS!" He roared as he randomly stumbled around. "DECIUS! DECIUS! DECIUS!"

"Calm down!" Farber embraced Walhart, and he slowly regained his composure. "Breathe, Walhart! Breathe!"

"Oh gods." Walhart whimpered as he approached his wife's remains. He tried to kiss her forehead and gently pick her up, but Hildegard's charred remains were so savaged by the fire that her arm came off when Walhart cradled her. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Or in this case, Walhart's sanity.

"DECIUS! DECIUS! DECIUS!" Walhart shrieked. "COMMODIA! TYRANUS! I'll get rid of them all, and I'll start with DECIUS!"

"Stop it!" Farber tried grab Walhart's shoulders, but he threw himself forwards and fell to his knees.

"DEEECIIUUUUU _UUUAAAAA_ _ **AAAAUUUUGGH**_!"

* * *

Time lost meaning to Walhart as he stumbled aimlessly around the city. It was now late at night, but that was all he knew. He was in a part of the city that hadn't been affected by the fire. The city guard avoided those areas like the plague, as they knew they'd be mobbed by citizens desperate for help if they went there. Instead the soldiers ignored the affected citizens and pretended not to notice the fire, confident that they could get away with that until at least morning. One such soldier was currently flirting with a prostitute by a street corner. Of course, the working girl was just a negotiable number of gold coins away from doing whatever the soldier wanted. He was only flirting for the benefit of his own ego.

It would be the worst mistake of his life.

"So there I was." The man said as he leaned against a building. "This miner draws his pickaxe and threatens me. A pickaxe! Can you believe that?"

"Ooh." The girl ran her finger along his chest and pretended to be interested. "Were you scared?"

"Are you kidding? Heh, he had no chance. So I drew my own sword and told him that-" The soldier noticed Walhart approaching. "Uh, hey there. Can I help you?"

Walhart stopped in front of the soldier and stuck his finger in his face. "WHERE IS DECIUS?!"

"My… boss?!"

"DECIUS!" Was all Walhart said to clarify.

The soldier reached for his short blade. "Look, buddy, I don't have to tell you anything. Get away!"

"DECIUS!"

"You only get one warning!"

Walhart seized the soldier's arm with one hand and grabbed his neck with the other. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE TAKEN FROM ME?! I'LL TAKE YOU FROM YOUR PARENTS! YOUR CHILDREN! YOUR FAMILY! THEN THEY'LL KNOW WHAT YOU'VE WROUGHT!" Walhart drew the soldier's short blade and ran him through with his own weapon. " _ **DIE FOR YOUR PRECIOUS CAPTAIN**_!"

Walhart brutalized the soldier until his intestines spilled out, then slit his throat for good measure. The man fell over as a bloody heap, and Walhart looked intently at his work. But for the terrified screams of the fleeing prostitute, the night air was dead still. Walhart lost track of time again. He just stood there, unable to process everything that had happened, until Farber sprinted up to him. "There you are!" Farber backed away at the sight. "Oh… oh my gods."

"Are you proud of me, Farber?" Walhart asked in an unhinged voice as he turned. "Now I've killed just like you and Ruger did on the ship. Are you proud of me?!"

"What are you doing?!"

"I will have justice!"

"Look at this man, Walhart! Look at what you've done! He wasn't even a mage!"

"THE IDIOCY AND APATHY OF ALL SOLDIERS KILLED MY FAMILY!"

"So what?! You're just going to go around killing men until they finally strike you down?! That won't change anything! Don't die for your wife, Walhart! Live for your wife!"

Walhart dropped the short sword as what he'd done truly dawned on him. He was beyond crying now. He just stood there, overloaded. It was as if his mind had to rebuild itself before he could speak again. "I don't… what have I… what did I just… what have I… what have I-"

"Walhart?"

Walhart looked into Farber's eyes, and his voice was soft and low. "Take me back to Kronshtadt. There's… nothing for me here anymore."

"Of course. Come on, buddy. I'm here for you."

"And I want to talk to Ruger."

"What? Why?"

"Because writing isn't enough." Walhart's eyes burned with fury, and Farber wasn't sure if he was inspired or afraid. "I want to be a gladiator."


	4. The Deliverance

Walhart and Farber buried Hildegard and Gloria on a hill outside of Sakdrisi the morning after the fire. They were far enough away to avoid the smoke, but it could still be seen rising from the city in the distance, and it provided a melancholy background to the burial. Walhart could do little but stand and stare at the small graves for the only two family members he really had. Farber desperately tried to think of something, anything, to say, but he knew full well he could never truly understand the gravity of a situation. Still, he had to say something.

"She was… four months pregnant?"

"Yeah." Walhart responded, his voice dull.

"You know… uh… you know they say everyone is here for a reason. You know? Naga puts everyone here for a reason. When you die, it means you fulfilled your purpose in life. When a child dies, it just means they fulfilled their purpose in life quicker than most people."

"Farber." Walhart turned to him. "That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, that was… that was stupid. I don't know why I even said anything." Farber slowly stepped forward. "I can't… I can't imagine what you're going through, but I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. I'm glad I met you, Walhart, and I'm glad I'm your friend. And… um… maybe… uh…" Farber's eyes fell to the ground. "Maybe… I could be… more than that."

Walhart didn't seem to register that Farber was trying to open his heart to him. He just stared through him, only vaguely aware of what he was saying. "Men need friends. Men need companions. The last vestige of my humanity died with my my wife, my mother-in-law, and the child whose face I never even saw." Walhart turned back to Hildegard's grave and knelt in front of it. "I'm sorry, Hildegard. You deserved so much better than me, but at least you're with the man you loved so much now. He died with you." Walhart took off his wedding ring, one of the most expensive things he'd ever owned, and buried it under a layer of dirt on top of the grave. "He died with you, my love. I'm nothing now."

Farber placed his hand on his shoulder and gently rocked him. "Walhart…"

Walhart was silent for a long time, but he eventually stood up and looked Farber in the eye. His voice was low and monotone. "Farber… there are going to be changes. The man you knew is gone now. I have to know something. Will you stand with me? No matter what I do, no matter how far I go, will you stay by my side?"

"Walhart…" The two clasped hands. "I would follow you into the fires of hell."

"Then let us leave this place. There's nothing for us here."

* * *

Walhart stepped out into the rectangular floor of the pit and looked up to the cheering crowds. The stands were jammed with people from all over Kronshtadt. Some of them were commoners. Others were nobles and city officials. They all stomped their feet in rhythm until the entire balconies of each level bounced up and down, pushed to the limits of their tensile strength. The noise was already overwhelming, and it would grow so loud that the gladiators of the pit would fight with their ears bombarded by a constant, maxed out white noise. The only other thing they'd hear, besides the screams of other gladiators should they be nearby, was the cheering and roaring of the frenzied mass.

Walhart had entered this arena, or another very like it, over a hundred and fifty times. He'd emerged victorious in every match. Every single one. Walhart had become so infamous that the pit bosses changed the rules for matches involving him. He no longer fought in one on one fights. If he was in a team match, his team would be smaller. If he fought by himself, then he'd fight multiple opponents. Walhart's foes were also given better weapons and armor than him, and they were allowed to take the field first so they could camouflage themselves in the debris intentionally strewn along the arena floor. It was a cowardly way to fight, but it worked in Walhart's favor. His enemies were given a number of advantages over him, and yet he'd always win regardless. Those victories made the crowds adore him. They made him look invincible.

Word was spreading. It had been eight months since Walhart left his life in Sakdrisi behind, and he was twenty nine years old now. It had been just eight months since he had entered the arena for the first time as a novice, but he quickly became one of the most fearsome gladiators of all. Now he was without a doubt the most feared, and his matches drew massive crowds. Walhart had also earned a nickname for himself, and the crowd cheered it now as he approached the center of the pit.

"CON-QUER-OR!" They chanted. Walhart had been given this name because of his many victories. He didn't necessarily care for it, but he was happy to let the crowd have its fun. He stood tall as the chanting continued. "CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"

Walhart had long since learned to think even as he drowned in the noise produced by the crowds, and his eyes quickly scanned the pit floor. Piles of debris and junk had been scattered around the arena floor to make the match more interesting, and Walhart just knew his four opponents were hiding in them. His eyes soon locked on a large collapsed wooden structure. _There. My opponent is there_. It was an obvious hiding spot, but Walhart knew that most of his foes lacked tactical subtlety. His mind was just as important in his many victories as his strength. Walhart drew his short sword and readied his arm shield, but he didn't approach his foe. Instead he raised his sword into the air and egged on the crowd. His fans eagerly took the opportunity to interact with him, and they happily resumed chanting.

"CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"

Walhart did this for a reason. For one, it got the crowd on his side. This made his foes doubt themselves and feel like the arena was against them. Two, any gladiator with an ounce of self-esteem would be infuriated at seeing him pantomiming victory before it had happened. Angry opponents made mistakes.

Walhart's taunting worked, but a single gladiator did not charge at him. Rather, three of his four opponents emerged from behind the structure and threw themselves at Walhart. The three gladiators were all equipped with leather and plate armor, and they wielded steel weapons. Walhart himself was armed with his short sword, and he also had a double handed battleaxe slung on his back, and he wore only a studded, leather skirt, sandals, and dark red plate armor on his arms. He looked like a common brigand, whereas his foes looked like soldiers from a well equipped army. None of this mattered to Walhart, and he didn't feel a trace of fear as the three men charged. Moving quickly, Walhart brought his arm shield up to block the sword slash of one man and then spun to the side as a second tried to bring his own axe down on him. He stunned the man by simply backhanding him across the face, then lunged forward and brought his short sword through the leather armor protecting the first man's leg. It was a powerful blow, and Walhart could feel the blade forcing itself through the gladiator's femur.

One down, three to go.

The second man threw away his heavy battle axe and quickly drew a stabbing weapon—held like brass knuckles but with a blade coming out. He tried to unceremoniously jab Walhart with it, but he caught the man's arm by the wrist with his left hand and used his right arm to shove his own short blade through the man's shoulder. Walhart smiled as the man recoiled in pain, and he used his raw strength to twist the blade while pushing it further into the man's body until his arm came right off. Walhart heard a brief splash as a spray of blood hit the pit floor, but every other noise, even the man's own cry of anguish, was quickly overpowered by the excited roar of the crowd. Walhart roared back as he lifted up the severed arm and hurled it towards the seating area, such that those sitting in the bottom stands could clearly see it, and the crowd was driven into an even greater frenzy. They loved brutality like that, and those kinds of moves made Walhart insanely popular. Of course, gladiators were forbidden from killing each other, but maiming wasn't against the rules. The quick use of a healing stave could heal the wound, so long as the arm was reattached within a few minutes, and Walhart didn't intend for this match to last that long.

Walhart displayed such ferocity for a reason. He wanted the crowd to know that he was dangerous. To think that he fought like he could bring down the building on top of their heads at any moment. To think that he fought like he knew he could die and had nothing to lose, but at the same time, to also think he thought himself invincible and feared nothing. Watching Walhart fight was like watching a force of nature. This is what brought in so many people. Only a portion of the population found enjoyment from the inherent violence of gladiator matches, but nigh every human being can be amazed by a sheer display of power. The same instinct that makes people stare at tornados, tsunamis, floods, and other such disasters made people stare at Walhart now. They could not take their eyes off him.

But Walhart himself had to quickly scan the area to find his other opponents. The third man was armed with a bow, but he was too horrified by what had happened to his comrade to attack. Walhart gave him little time to recover. He sprung forward and quickly slashed at the bow, severing its string. He then headbutted the man. Walhart's bare flesh now seared with pain as he hit the man's metal helmet, and the man himself was entirely uninjured, but the kinetic energy involved still sent him to the ground. Walhart easily could have slashed the man across the chest, but he didn't want to win too quickly. Displays of strength like that only increased the crowd's fervor.

Walhart turned to the crowd and basked in their affection once more, intentionally giving the man a chance to get up. The third opponent was again rendered blind with rage at Walhart's taunting, and the shorter man literally leapt onto Walhart's back as he drew his knife, searching for the most vulnerable point to attack.

Walhart had no vulnerable points. He had no weaknesses. He was Walhart!

Reaching back with both hands, Walhart seized the man and slammed him against the floor. "You are but a footnote before my might!" He shouted as he repeatedly struck the man in the abdomen. Walhart assaulted the archer until he couldn't even scream anymore. He could only curl up into a fetal position as blood gurgled out of his mouth. The match hadn't even been going on for two minutes, and already three of his opponents were down. Standing tall, Walhart left his injured foes behind as he looked around for the fourth. Understanding an opponent was the first step to defeating them, and Walhart pondered why the fourth gladiator hadn't fought with the others as he looked at the piles of debris along the arena. Was it pride? Fear? Was he simply disliked by his teammates?

The answer seemed to be Walhart's first guess as he noticed a hulking figure darting through the debris with surprising speed out of the corner of his eye, and Walhart spun around and engaged in the duel his foe seemed to want. This man wielded a steel sword and protected his arm with a large shield strapped to him. His equipment was better than Walhart's in every way, and he found himself driven back by the gladiator's furious offensive. He tried getting away from the gladiator and attacking from a new angle, but his foe was relentless, and Walhart was punished for trying a risky move as the man took the opportunity to drive his sword into his bare chest. Walhart recoiled in agony as the blade punctured clean through him, and for the first time since the match started the crowd actually fell silent. Their nervousness was palpable, and it only made the opposing gladiator all the more gleeful as he drove the sword deeper into him. "Heh." He said with an eager smile. "Not so invincible. You're finished."

Walhart would have been finished long ago if single injuries could keep him down, and he channeled his pain into rage as he brought the endless white of his eyes to the gladiator's. "HUAAAAAGH!" Walhart groaned through gritted teeth as he forced himself closer to his stunned foe. "Hrrg… urrgh… t-think so?!" Walhart grabbed the man's face. "THINK SO?!"

The gladiator was too shocked that Walhart could move at all to let go of his sword, and Walhart used his left hand to jab at his eyes while his right hand slowly and agonizingly pried his jaw out of position. The man recoiled in pain, far less capable of dealing with it than Walhart, and the conqueror took the time to draw his axe and bury it into his abdomen. He fell over twitching and crying, and Walhart stood over him as he pulled his axe out and triumphantly thrusted it into the air.

All while still having a sword impaled in him.

The crowd went into a fervor, and Walhart basked in it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and flicked his long black hair around, letting it fall tantalizingly down his broad shoulders like the male hero from a historical epic might, then finally turned to his admirers. "Who defeats the conqueror?!" He shouted back to them. "Who can stand against me?!" He began pointing towards people in the stands. "You?! Can you defeat me?! Will you stand against me?! How about you?! Will anyone do it?! Will any five of you?! Any ten?! Will you challenge me for all the glory I've won?!" Walhart's finger fell randomly on people. Sometimes he pointed towards adults who vaguely looked like they could defend themselves, but his finger also fell on the elderly, uptight nobles, and even teenaged girls. He wasn't really being serious. He was just trying to rile up the crowd, and it seemed to work.

"CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR! CON-QUER-OR!"

"Remember this day! Today is the day you saw Walhart in battle! Today is the most exciting day of your lives! Remember!"

Their adulation fell on him like rain. It wasn't that Walhart needed their validation. It was that the fighting, and beyond that, the thrill the crowd got from the fighting, made him feel alive. He'd worked as a laborer for years, and almost everyone in the world stuck their noses up at him. Now, risking his life for the entertainment of others, he ironically felt like he was respected. His name meant something now. People wouldn't forget him now. Never again would he be a nameless, faceless cog in an apathetic machine. All his life he had felt worthless to the world. Worthless to everyone except Hildegard. Deep down Walhart had started fighting to forget the pain her loss caused him, and yet as he fought with sword in hand, the only thing he forgot was the complacency conditioned in laborers like him. He felt alive in the ring. When he was victorious. He knew that feeling would fade from this moment on until the next time he fought, and he hated it. Why did he have to go back to his quarters and kill time until the next match? Why couldn't he always feel like this? What if the thrill of victory never ended?

What if all of Valm was his arena?

* * *

"I just, I-I just don't think t-this is such a good idea! He's a very big man!"

All popular sports have several things in common. They involve athletes, they attract legions of fans, and perhaps most importantly, they all involve massive amounts of money. The gladiatorial games in Kronshtadt were controlled by a syndicate of career criminals—the pit bosses. Some of these men were retired gladiators, but most were crime lords who also had ties to sex trafficking, arms running, gambling, and the unlicensed distribution of alcohol and narcotics. If there was money involved in something, they had a share in it. They cared very little for the gladiators, and they ran them like machines. Who was to know or care? The government of Kronshtadt turned the other way, and a gladiator couldn't go to the city guards and complain that he was being mistreated in his illegal occupation. Walhart used to be a darling of the pit bosses. After all, he brought in the crowds.

But Walhart had been chafing under their control for the past two months. As popular as Walhart was, his crowds were slowly getting smaller. Some people adored him, but others didn't want to pay money to see a game where they knew who would win. Writings about his matches didn't sell as well, and the bosses had noticed. He was becoming too big. Things were about to come to a breaking point.

"Scared, Ruger?" One of the men replied as he looked down to the trickster.

Ruger helped organize the gladiatorial games and find new gladiators, but he wasn't considered one of the bosses. This was just one of the many skeevy things he had going on. On one hand, that made it easier to pack up and leave if the police ever cracked down on the operation. On the other hand, he had to do whatever the pit bosses told him to. "Hell yeah I'm scared! The man is huge! I should know! I'm the one who found him! Besides, I'm not sure you've really thought this through. Walhart is very popular here."

"We don't want a popular gladiator. We want a lot of popular gladiators. This one has to be taken down a notch."

"But-"

The man shoved Ruger to the ground. "If you don't want to face him, then stay here! We'll deal with this, little man."

Ruger nervously ran his hands through his navy blue hair as the pit bosses walked ahead of him. "I am not that little." He whined.

Walhart had been quietly reading in his private quarters when the pit bosses arrived to confront him. There were eight of them, all carrying weapons. Walhart himself was only wearing his smallclothes, and gladiators weren't allowed to have weapons in their quarters. The only thing he had on him was his book, _Peace In Our Time_ , which had also been one of his few possessions to survive the fire in Sakdrisi. The paper was warped from the heat, and the cover was barely hanging on now, but Walhart casually read it all the same as the eight men took position by his bed. Walhart knew full well what was happening, and he didn't even turn his head to look as the men spoke. In fact, he only barely registered what they said. They told him he was the finest gladiator they'd ever seen. A real immortal. They spent some time buttering him up, but then they inevitably got to their point. He'd gotten too big, and not everyone wanted to see the same gladiator win each game. They further revealed that people placed bets on the gladiators, and this was something Walhart didn't know. Walhart brought in money from admission prices, but he was bad for betting. No one wanted to bet against him. They told him he had to take a fall, starting with his next match.

It was a moment that only occasionally comes along in a person's life. A moment where you have to decide right then and there whether you want to stand up for yourself, or go along with someone else's plan for you. Walhart made his decision.

Ruger was nervously pacing back and forth outside the door to Walhart's quarters when he turned to find the gladiator standing behind him, drenched in blood. Ruger's heart skipped a few beats, and it was a while before he could speak again. "But?! But they had weapons?! How did you… but they had… how did you-"

Walhart took one of the weapons he'd stolen from the pit bosses and brought it to Ruger's neck. "I'm in charge of the pits from now on. Do you have a problem with that, little man?"

Ruger's blue eyes darted around in terror, and his voice was squeaky. "N-no! No, sir! Uh… all hail Walhart! I'll spread the word as you will."

"Yes. Always as I will."

* * *

"Oh my _gods_ that feels good. A little lower… mmm, a little lower… oh, there we go."

Within her residence in Sakdrisi, Magistrate Commodia was deeply enjoying a personal massage. That didn't necessarily mean she was lounging around. In fact, she was in the middle of an important meeting. Standing in front of her were a number of important men; Decius, Captain of the City Guard, several city officials including Quaestor Excellus, and Father Nominus, who represented the Church of the Divine Dragons in Sakdrisi. (Father Tyranus was more significant, but Commodia knew of his power and didn't allow him into her home.) All of these men wore their varying elaborate uniforms and stood at attention, but Commodia herself just lied face down on the massage table, resting the side of her head against her arms and wearing absolutely nothing save for a cloth around her rear. The masseur too was entirely focused on his work, never bothering to look at the other people in the room.

Commodia inherited a lot from her noble birth, but she also had to work a great deal to get to where she was. As a general rule, Valm was a conservative, patriarchal society. Men had their places, and women had their places. As is so common in agricultural societies, the roles intended to be male dominated afforded more power, wealth, and prestige. Women were not expected to fill the necessary roles of government, and Commodia's parents never expected her to have any kind of career. They'd be proud of her brothers if they became government officials, but all Commodia had to do to earn their pride was marry a rich man and produce grandchildren. Commodia had other plans. She liked power, and she'd worked since girlhood to seize it.

Adamantly refusing marriage offers since she was thirteen years old—including several that would have made her very comfortable—Commodia saved up her trust fund to afford an education in law and eventually managed to secure a minor position in Sakdrisi's government. Her family didn't even hail from the city. They were simply the first people that would take her. From there she clawed her way up the ranks while slowly building up a retinue of loyal and morally flexible individuals. Several years of backroom deals (and backstabs) later, she was Magistrate of Sakdrisi, and her personal power and wealth had only grown from there. Her influence was beyond that of any other Magistrate, and she was indisputably the most powerful person in the kingdom outside the capital of Kremnica. Commodia would call herself a self made woman, but commoners like Walhart might quickly point out that she still took advantage of opportunities only afforded to her by her noble lineage. Commodia hardly cared what lowborn commoners thought. All that mattered to her was power. Right now, she was in a room full of well dressed, dignified men, and they all had to stand at attention and speak to her in a very respectful manner while she herself was half naked and couldn't even be bothered to stand up and look them in the eye.

That was the kind of influence she wielded.

"My investigation into the problem has yielded results, Magistrate." Decius had been speaking to Commodia about the fire that had ravaged Sakdrisi eight months prior. "It seems the mages responsible for starting the fire were drunk on wine someone had just gifted to them. They were careless with their magic. That's why the fire spread to the rest of the city."

"Mmm, get my shoulder." Commodia said to the masseur. "It still doesn't feel right after that peasant threw a rock at me."

Decius cleared his throat. "Magistrate?"

"I was listening, Decius." Commodia turned her head slightly to have Decius in her peripheral vision. "So someone just gave them the wine right before they were to begin their mission? That doesn't seem suspicious to you?"

"I'm continuing the investigation, milady."

"I still can't believe you intentionally set fire to the city!" Nominus snapped as he stepped forward. "Such a callous disregard for human life!"

Commodia sunk her face into her arms as the masseur worked on the shoulder Walhart had managed to strike a year prior. "Like I said, Nominus, the fire wasn't supposed to be that large. It only spread because of the incompetence of the Captain's mages."

"It was a horrible idea." Nominus said aloud. He realized even as the words left his mouth that he shouldn't have said anything, and Commodia looked up to him.

"Are you questioning my authority?"

"No! No, Magistrate!"

"Decius!" Decius stepped forward, slapped Nominus across the face, then returned to where he'd been standing. "How dare you doubt me, priest! My government gives the church a lot of resources. A lot of privileges. This is _my_ city. You'd do well to remember that, boy."

"Yes, Magistrate!"

"The fire was a very calculated move. We still need to build more infrastructure to fully automate the mine, and the fire allowed us to get emergency relief funding from the crown in Kremnica. We'll have the profits without having to spend anything, and the fire was only supposed to destroy the decaying areas around the gold mine anyways. It's not my fault it spread into the slums." Commodia turned her head towards Excellus. "Tell me, Quaestor, how much funding have we received?"

"Hee hee, hundreds of thousands of gold so far." Excellus replied. "But I'm sure I can squeeze them for even more. I'm having the forms prepared as we speak."

"Very good."

Nominus shifted around. "I don't like this."

"Well I hardly much care what you think. Now, all of you turn around. I'm getting dressed." The men turned their backs to Commodia as she sat up and let the cloth fall to the floor, but in truth she didn't bother herself worrying about what they did and did not see. If anything it was a display of power that she could be so casual around them. She'd have you flogged if you were disrespectful to her, but she could do whatever she wanted around you. Commodia continued the conversation as a small army of handmaidens appeared and helped her into an elaborate dress. "The way I see it, everything is going as planned. Soon the King will grant us enough money to complete the infrastructure, and the gold will flow once more. I'll be a hero of Valm for saving the economy."

"What about the areas of the slums still damaged?" Nominus asked.

Commodia scoffed. "The peasants have already rebuilt much of it themselves. I'm sure they can fix what's left. They're good with their hands."

The men turned back as Commodia, now clad in a stunningly ornate gold and purple dress, approached them. "Is there anything else, milady?" Decius asked as he held his head high.

"Continue your investigation, Decius. Excellus, send those forms to the capital as soon as possible. Dismissed. All of you."

Excellus hurried back to his office as soon as he could, and he found his own assistant, Nelson, waiting for him. Excellus sat himself in his chair, and Nelson, long since past the point where it even had to be requested of him, had prepared yet another light meal for his superior to enjoy. Today's treat was a cream custard tart made with almond milk (which was quite expensive in the Middle Ages) and seasoned with honey and imported Chon'sin spices. Excellus had already devoured half of it by the time Nelson returned with a stack of papers. "You're back, sir! How fared the meeting?"

"Oh, more of the same."

"Was the Magistrate impressed with the results of your brilliant maneuvering of Kremnica's bureaucrats?"

"She was, but it's not quite enough. We'll need to wring a little more money out of them. Just falsify reports of the fire doing more damage than was originally believed or something."

"Of course, Quaestor."

"Now, onto more important matters. Have you prepared the other forms I've asked for?"

"Of course." Nelson handed Excellus the stack of papers, and he smiled as he read through them. These papers were never meant to be seen by the Quaestor's eyes. He was working outside of Commodia's interests now. "Proof that the Magistrate had the great fire of Sakdrisi started intentionally. This could ruin her. Is that why you wanted these? Blackmail?"

"Oh, Nelson. You always jump to the most obvious solutions. Commodia and I have done a lot for each other. You don't bite the hand that feeds. Not directly anyways. Besides, she has plenty of dirt on me." Excellus selected a few papers and handed them back to Nelson. "No, I don't want the officials in Kremnica to see this. Do you remember the miners Commodia tried to imprison?"

"I've been keeping tabs on them, yes."

"Make sure those papers find their way into the hands of the Kronshtadt gladiators. I want Walhart to see it."

Nelson had been keeping detailed records on the escaped miners for Excellus, and Walhart was the one that caught his eye the most. "Ah yes. The one believed to have thrown the rock at Commodia. The one who killed the soldier in the riot. The one who lost his wife and mother-in-law in the fire. He'll be infuriated if he learns that the fire was intentionally started."

"Exactly. He'll surely lash out in some way. I can just feel it." Excellus gave a twisted smile. "Remember what I said about instability?"

"Your ambition has no limits, sir. You'd bring down all of creation just to satisfy your own desires." Excellus looked at his assistant, wondering if Nelson was insulting him, but he actually seemed to be in awe. "I am so glad to be working here!"

* * *

"Okay, Farber. Listen carefully. This is intended to be a philosophical exercise, so think carefully about your answer."

It had been a week since Walhart seized control of the gladiators. The matches continued, and the crowds continued to roll in, but significant changes were just around the corner. At this particular point in time, Walhart and Farber were having a casual conversation in the arena's VIP box. It was a comfortable and spacious area, and it even featured a fireplace and a bar, but Walhart paid little attention to these things now. Farber had idly engaged him in conversation while he was reading _Peace In Our Time_ , and that had since grown into a long discussion on philosophy and ethics. It didn't go as smoothly as Walhart wanted it to, as Farber just didn't have the same intellectual capacity as him. He was a far simpler man.

"But I answered your questions well enough, Walhart." Farber replied.

"Philosophy isn't about finding some objective and simple answer. It's a thought exercise! Now, here's another one. Say a mage invented a spell that would instantly teleport you from here to the Ylissean continent. The spell works by destroying you completely-"

"You said the mage was teleporting me?"

"Let me finish! It destroys your body completely and entirely, but then rebuilds you exactly as you were on the Ylissean continent."

"Does it hurt?"

"That's irrelevant."

"It sounds relevant to me."

"Just listen! Anyways, the spell replicates your body _exactly_. You have the same brain. The same memories. Even the cut on your upper lip you got from shaving that morning. You feel the exact same as you did before the spell was cast. Now, are you the same individual? After all, the body you have after the spell was cast is different."

"Yes. You are the same."

"But the body is different, so are you truly the same?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you just are."

Walhart sighed. "Really think about this! Now, say the spell was upgraded. Say the mage could produce multiple copies of your original body on the Ylissean continent. They all have the same brain. The same memories. They all even have the cut on their upper lip. Which one is really you? Which is the original?"

"The first one is."

"But they're all exactly the same. Which ones are clones?"

"The clones are clones."

"But how do you know which ones are clones?"

"The cloned ones are clones."

Walhart face palmed. "Okay, say you had no idea which ones were created first. How would you know which one is the original?"

"The first one will tell you."

"You're not really thinking about the question, Farber! I mean, could you ever know an observation is true?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"By looking."

The two glanced over as Ruger entered the room. "Knock, knock. I'm back from meeting that mysterious Sakdrisi official. The one who contacted us."

"I'm surprised it wasn't a trap." Farber answered.

"What did he want?"

Ruger tossed an envelope to Walhart, and the gladiator reflexively caught it. "He gave me several official documents. You… you're going to want to read them."

Walhart had no idea what to expect as he read over the documents, but he never thought the contents would make his face twist with fury. Walhart's blood felt like it would boil out of his skin, and without warning he gave a furious roar as he flipped the table in front of him. "Celica's bones, Walhart!" Farber cried. "Calm down!"

"CALM DOWN?!" Walhart shoved the papers in Farber's face. "There's no justice in this world, Farber! We have to make our own!"

Farber read the papers himself. "That fire… they started it on purpose. Gods… I knew Commodia was a rich jerk but… oh my gods."

"It wasn't nature that slew my family! It was the will of man!" Walhart's eyes fell on his copy of _Peace In Our Time_ , and he gently scooped it off the floor. "I'm sick of this! I remember what Hildegard said to me before I started working here. I wasn't in control of anything happening to me. The strike. The prison ship. Working here. It was all forced on me."

Farber and Ruger both gave worried looks. Walhart's voice was low and sinister, and it unnerved both men. "Walhart?" Farber asked.

"I used to believe so strongly in this book, but now I see that it's not enough. I spent all those years writing, but nothing changed. I spent all those years working like a good citizen, and nothing changed. Here, things changed, not because I kept my head down and worked, but because I stood up for myself! I seized control of the pits and now I know what needs to be done to create a world where people won't lose their families like I did!" Walhart looked back to the book. "Celica and Alm worked together to end the age of gods and build the One Kingdom of Valentia, but they aren't considered to be the same. They had different viewpoints. Celica believed so strongly in achieving peace without fighting, but Alm was willing to take up the sword and do what needed to be done. In the end, Alm is remembered as the hero who struck down Duma. In the end, the continent was named 'Valm', not 'Velica'."

"What are you saying?"

"Celica was wrong. Peace isn't possible when the government rules through force! The pen is not mightier than the sword when authors are censored! Sometimes fighting is necessary! Sometimes good comes because of it! Alm saved Valentia from Duma through violence! Marth saved Archanea from Medeus through violence! The First Exalt stopped Grima through violence! Even Celica was a woman who could burn a man alive with but a flick of her wrist. Man is only the ruler of this realm because he is willing to defend himself! I'm going to give Alm's way a try." Walhart threw his book, his most treasured possession, into the fireplace. "Assemble the gladiators! I have something to say to them."

There were over three hundred gladiators involved in the underground matches of Kronshtadt, and about two hundred of them were available in the arena to listen to Walhart. The hulking gladiator leader was far beyond any fear of public speaking now, even though he'd never spoken to this many people before, and his voice boomed across the pit as he stood high in the stands. "My friends, you come from all over Valm. Some of you come from here in Kronshtadt. Some come from Sakdrisi. Some come from Kremnica. Some of you aren't even from this Kingdom. You come from Ylisse. Plegia. Ferox. You come from Chon'sin. Roseanne. Kyros. Veslil. Tarsque. We are all diverse, and yet we are not. We come from different locations, but we all come from the same background. We were all laborers. Farmers. Miners. Apprentices. Soldiers. We were all _disposable_. We were all peasants! We brought our misery together and fought in these arenas to forget our worthless lives. We were the forgotten—forgotten until we held a sword in our hands. When we fought, we felt it. We were alive! In fighting for the entertainment of others, we made a name for ourselves! Now at the end of each day you can drop your weapons and crawl home, but what if you didn't have to? What if we were always gladiators? Assembled here, I see strength. Power. What if we used that to change society? What if instead of fighting in Kronshtadt, we fought across all of Valm? What if instead of fighting each other, we fought the ones who put us here? We, the working classes, are everything that is needed to constitute a nation! We don't need the rest of the feudal society! We don't need nobles! We don't need bankers! We don't need priests! We don't need soldiers! We don't need a King! We don't need a Queen! We don't need spoiled Princesses! We are the spirit of Valm! It is time we broke the shackles of the feudal society. We will build a new and better society! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that was earned on our backs! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that always should have been ours! No gods! No Kingdoms! No masters!"

The gladiators didn't know what to think when Walhart began speaking, but his words spoke to their resentment and their pride, and they exploded with fervor as he finished. "NO GODS! NO KINGDOMS! NO MASTERS!"

Walhart basked in their admiration before speaking again. "Thousands of years ago, the legendary hero Alm fought against a corrupt and oppressive regime! Now, we shall follow in his path and free this land from the greedy nobles that have corrupted it! From now on, we are not just gladiators! From now on, we are the DELIVERANCE!" Some of the gladiators understood the historical significance of this. Others didn't, but they were still driven into a frenzy by Walhart's words. "Who stands with the conqueror?!"

"HAIL, WALHART! HAIL, WALHART! HAIL, WALHART!"

* * *

"Are you alright, dear?"

As powerful as officials like Commodia could be, true power in a Kingdom always rested with, well, the King. All governments have their leaders, and people ranging from philosophers to lawyers have spent millennia arguing as to what a leader's role should be, and how much power they should have. Virtually all human societies have executive branches. Sometimes the executive exercises complete authority, and sometimes power is distributed among multiple branches of the government, but there is always an executive organ that holds responsibility for governing the state. So long as that is true, and it always has been true, there will be legions of followers who will cling to the executive in the hopes of sharing in power. Even in the modern United States, for example, there are those who argue for the ever increasing power of the President. Why should the President share so much power with Congress? Why shouldn't the President reign over the entire executive branch without checks from the legislative branch? Proponents of the strong unitary executive theory suggest this, and this is an age where democracy and checks and balances are the norm.

In the Middle Ages, such ideas were considered _quaint_. The King had to share power with nobles and rule with the help of a bureaucracy for practical purposes, but from a philosophical standpoint, the power of a late medieval King was nigh absolute. His authority came not from men, but from divine right. The King _was_ the Kingdom, and he had legions of followers who would happily support this in the hopes of sharing in his power. The King was not subject to the will of the aristocracy, or any other estate of the realm. He certainly wasn't subject to the will of his people. Only the gods could judge him, and to challenge the King was not just treason. It was heresy. This was power beyond imagining. The King didn't just rule over kilometers of land. By the Divine Right of Kings, he ruled over the very _soul_ of the Kingdom. Any man who was King, no matter who he was, had his rule justified through this concept of divine right. If Naga didn't want him to be King, then he wouldn't be King. To challenge him is to challenge Naga.

Talk about a strong executive theory.

But for all that, the King of Valm was still just a man, and he had the same desires as any man. Right now, he wanted little more than to spend a nice, quiet evening with his wife.

Merovech had technically been King since his father died when he was only four years old, and he'd taken the throne from his regent at twenty one. He had blue eyes and the same navy blue hair as his daughters. Merovech had a rather dull face, but that was not to suggest anything about his looks. Many people, including the Captain of his own Pegasus Knights, would attest otherwise. Rather, his face had a lack of cunning. It was an open face, with kind eyes and a warm expression. Plotting and planning seemed alien to him, and deceit wasn't in his nature. He was trusting and kind. He would help other people without question, and his very presence was inspiring. People trusted him, and they wanted to follow him. The King's youth was leaving him, but he was still in the prime of his life. He was very young to have teenaged daughters—Adalhaid having been born when he was only nineteen—but he quickly adapted to his life as a father and a family man.

Merovech had been relaxing in a chair when his wife, Queen Serria, had come up to massage his shoulders, and he smiled as her brown eyes met his. Serria had been a Pegasus Knight in service to the royal family as a teenager, and she was a clumsy one at that. She much preferred being Merovech's wife and partner.

"I'm fine." The King finally replied as he smiled back. "At least, I am now. With you here."

Serria leaned over to gently kiss his forehead, and her brown hair—so faded in color that it was almost silvery under certain lighting—fell over him as she did. "Mmm, well it's over now. I'm stuffed. How about you?"

The King and Queen had recently returned from a banquet. The food was prepared well enough, but Merovech could hardly tolerate the forced smiles and pleasantries he was made to provide to nobles he barely knew. Merovech gave a long sigh as he sunk into his chair. It was partly because the day had exhausted him, but it was also a pleasant, swoon like sigh as he realized he could finally be alone with his wife. "I couldn't eat another bite, and I can't spend one more moment with those nobles."

Serria went back to caressing his shoulders. "Well it's just the two of us now. You know, Adalhaid and Annalisa are being tutored at the moment."

Merovech looked up and gave a sly smile. "Oh?"

"How about we spend the rest of the evening here, never leaving our quarters? Just you and I? Mmm, maybe with some scented candles. A nice dessert?"

"But wouldn't that entail leaving our room?"

"Not if I've already prepared it." Merovech got up from his chair, and Serria readily received him in her arms. "I love you, Merovech." She said softly as their lips finally parted. "Even after days like this, and even after all your duties as King, and all my duties as Queen, I still look at you like I did when we were teenagers."

"Stop it, Serria." He said with a smile.

"But I do. How about you? Do you still see me as that klutzy girl that stumbled so readily into your arms?"

"I don't."

Serria's expression soured. "Oh come on." She pouted. Merovech laughed.

"I don't, because you've grown so much more beautiful since then." Serria giggled, and she bit her lip and leaned her head into Merovech's hand as he caressed her cheek. "Tell me. How did you plan for the night to end?"

"Well…" Serria whispered directly into her husband's ear. "We could retire to the bed. Give the handmaidens something to clean up in the morning."

Merovech unintentionally giggled himself, partly from the comedic value of that kind of statement coming out of a Queen's mouth, and partly because Serria started to nibble on his earlobe. He closed his eyes and gently bit on her neck, and Serria moaned right in his ear as she ran her hand through his blue hair. They most assuredly would have gone further if allowed, but they both turned their heads at the sound of someone approaching to see the Captain of Merovech's Pegasus Knights. Much like in Ylisse, many kingdoms in Valm had Pegasus Knights in their military. The Captain, Caeldy, was a woman about their age with long, flowing red hair. She and Serria had actually been childhood friends, and she'd also nurtured a crush on Merovech since she was a girl. Of course, no one needed to know that, and she'd long since learned to turn her infatuation into a professional dedication. "Uh, heh…" Caeldy had seen everything, but she quickly collected herself. "My lord."

"Oh." Merovech cleared his throat as he awkwardly stepped back. "Captain?"

"The war council meeting is being held, and your attendance is requested."

Merovech furrowed his brow. "I thought that was tomorrow?"

"It's been moved up. The officers demanded it. I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for. I'll be there at once." Merovech turned to Serria and ran his finger under her chin. "I'm sorry. I'll return as soon as possible."

Serria looked down dejectedly. "Hurry back… my love."

Merovech was still wearing his dignified attire from the banquet, so he thankfully didn't have to change. He immediately followed Caeldy down the winding halls of his palace until the two reached the room where the meeting was being held. Several military officers were in attendance. Among them was Cervantes, the Captain of Merovech's palace guard and the retainer for his daughters. Also there was Federico, the Captain of his Knights. Federico was a tall man with a full set of plate armor and brown hair. He'd been Merovech's personal guard since he was a teenager, and the two were especially close. One of the officers had been giving a presentation, but he quickly stood at attention as Caeldy and Merovech entered the room. Caeldy slammed the shaft of her lance against the ground, and everyone else soon followed.

"Attention!" Federico shouted.

"At ease, everyone." The officers sat back down as Merovech stepped into the center of the room and looked at the board. It had been two weeks since Walhart reorganized the gladiators, and they'd slowly become known to the military officers. There were several papers detailing the underground gladiators of Kronshtadt, and a few individual names were listed. Farber, Ruger and Walhart. Merovech groaned as his mind drifted back to his patiently waiting wife. "Why couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"

"We believe we should deal with the problem as quickly as possible." Cervantes answered as he stood up. "These gladiators seem to be organizing an insurgency of some kind. They're even calling themselves the Deliverance."

"I'm guessing it's not a coincidence that's named after the group Alm was part of in the legends?"

"I doubt it, milord." Federico answered.

"If we know so much about the gladiators, why were they allowed to proliferate?"

"You know how lazy the local magistrates and lords can be." Cervantes replied. "They turned the other way at the gladiator matches. Now we're paying the price."

"Well it stops now. You all know how I operate. How serious it is that I'm here. I don't play games. This is how it's going to go down." Merovech straightened himself. "We'll be sending scouting teams to the probable locations of the gladiator venues. They will be at permanent postings in Kronshtadt until a location of rebel activity is confirmed. Then we'll work with the local city government to send strike teams in. We'll deal with this quickly and quietly. These criminals may be evasive, but they're not invisible. We will crack down on this _cult_."

Merovech turned as his officers nodded, but Cervantes didn't sit back down. "Uh, milord? Could I speak with you in private?"

Merovech gritted his teeth, still thinking of Serria. "Uh… sure. Of course, Cervantes."

Merovech lead Cervantes outside of the room. He quickly stood at attention again, but Merovech silently implored him to get to the point. "I'm sorry, milord. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Just… you had something to say?"

"Milord, I know I'm sworn to serve and protect the princesses, but I was the pride of the military academy."

"I'm well aware."

"My King…" It took a few seconds for Cervantes to work up the confidence. "When the time to crack down on the rebels comes… let me lead the strike teams. Allow me this chance to serve the Kingdom."

"Cervantes…"

"I'm trained. I'm willing to put my life in danger! I can do this."

"But I need you here."

"But… these rebels could theoretically put the entire Kingdom in danger. In this time of potential crisis, we need strong men to lead the charge."

Merovech placed his hand on Cervantes' shoulder in a friendly manner. "It's because the Kingdom is in danger that I need you here. With my daughters. I need to know they're protected."

"I… understand, milord. It's just that-"

"Please, Cervantes." Merovech shifted around. "I'd really like to get back to my wife."

Cervantes was frustrated when he realized the King was putting his carnal desires ahead of the security of his own Kingdom, but he'd never let that show on his face. "Of course… my lord. Give my regards to the Queen, eh wot?"

Merovech patted him on the shoulder again and hurried away, leaving the matter of planning the operation to his officers.

* * *

The military of the Kingdom of Valm wasn't much to speak of. It was strong enough to keep order and enforce the King's rule, but it didn't have the numbers to stand up to any of the other kingdoms on the continent. It was, however, famed for its specialized reconnaissance units, the Royal Scouts. These units were trained to operate independently for long periods of time, and they were instrumental in cracking down on criminal operations.

Op Team 11 consisted of a man and a woman. Courtney was a young, slender soldier of twenty three years. She had tanned skin, dark brown eyes, and curly black hair that went down to her chin. Her partner, a twenty four year old man named Conrad, was tall and lanky with fair skin, lighter brown eyes, and unmanageable soft brown hair that would yield to no comb or brush and seemed to change every time Courtney looked at it. Royal Scouts always worked in pairs, and they often developed an intensely personal relationship with their partner. Conrad and Courtney were almost like brother and sister.

The two were in the rafters of one of the buildings believed to be a hotspot of gladiator activity. The building in question was an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of Kronshtadt, and the two had been in the area for two days now. "No sign of activity here either." Courtney said as she scanned the floor of the building. She noticed the floor had been modified into an arena like structure, but that didn't necessarily prove the gladiators were still here.

"Yeesh." Conrad said as he flicked some kind of arachnid off his arm. "Even members of an illegal fight club would be slumming it here. What makes the officers think there's anything going on at a dive like this?"

"Come on, Conrad. Mouth shut unless you have something important to report. Eyes open."

"Yes, dear." Conrad answered sarcastically. Courtney gave a small smile, but she quickly focused as she noticed movement in the distance. She silently alerted Conrad with finger gestures, and the two watched intently as a group of men walked into view. A large gate on the side of the building was opened, and a carriage parked itself by the men. They quickly got to work offloading construction materials. "No wonder we can't track their supply shipments." Conrad whispered. "They don't ship the arena components to the venues. They build it on site."

"I'm repositioning." Conrad nodded as Courtney darted along the rafters to find a new vantage point. She looked back down to see two particularly large gladiators walking into view. These two men matched the descriptions of Walhart and Farber.

The gladiators still had regular matches, but they weren't sporting events anymore. The crowds weren't allowed to see them, and no money was involved. One on one matches had been banned, and the teams were getting bigger and more organized. Walhart was preparing for a war.

"This looks like a good place, huh?" Farber asked. The leader of the Deliverance didn't seem to be listening.

"We're not alone, Farber." Courtney froze in place as Walhart looked around. "I know you're there! Show yourself!"

Courtney was an instant away from shouting out to Conrad, but she quickly realized Walhart was looking towards something else entirely. A scrawny looking mage strolled into view from behind the carriage, two large men with heavy crates flanking him. "As you wish." He answered. Farber drew a tome and materialized a fireball in his hand as he stepped in front of Walhart.

"Who are you?! How did you find us?!"

"Oh please. The gladiator matches are a poorly kept secret."

Walhart gently but firmly moved Farber aside. "What do you want?"

"My name is Nelson, and I have a proposal for you." Nelson snapped his fingers, and the men dropped the crates and revealed weapons and armor. Nelson smiled as the gladiator's eyes widened. "Yours for the taking."

Courtney quickly made note of everything present. There were steel swords, lances, axes, and bows, and there were also esoteric weapons like levin swords, double bows, and blessed lances. There were tomes of all kinds ranging from simple fire tomes to Mire and Nosferatu tomes. There were also full sets of plate armor. Farber stared on in wonder, and Ruger seemed to materialize out of nowhere and eagerly picked up a levin sword, but Walhart just glared.

"What do you want in return?"

Nelson's smile grew. "My master only requests that you use them as you see fit."

"Really?"

"Who is this guy?" Courtney whispered as she struggled to remember everything in the crates. Nelson continued as Walhart himself inspected the weapons.

"My master believes that your forces, your Deliverance, are preparing to strike against the government of Kronshtadt."

"Sakdrisi." Walhart replied. "We'll start with Sakdrisi. However, we plan to rally the people themselves. Why does your 'master' believe we'll need weapons?"

"Oh, he's good at predicting things. He's very perceptive, and he's teaching me to be too." Nelson looked up, and this was no false alarm. Courtney knew when she'd been spotted. "As a further display of trust, allow me to deal with your uninvited guests."

Courtney tensed up as Walhart looked towards her, and Ruger disappeared from sight while Farber scrambled for a tome. She sprang to her feet and turned to Conrad. "Bail! Bail! We've been compromised! Do you acknowledge, Conrad?!" Courtney looked on in horror as Ruger blasted Conrad off the rafters with his levin sword. "Conrad! CONRAD!" She looked back to the ground to see that Nelson had fired a blast from an Arcfire tome at her. "Bollocks!"

Courtney had been knocked out by the fall, and it took some time for her to wake up. She regained consciousness to find herself stripped of her armor and holdout weapons. She was being forcibly restrained by Farber. She tried rising to her feet, but he simply shoved her back down. "Gah! Get off of me!" Farber backhanded her, and Courtney's eyes fell to Conrad as her head was forced to the side. She quickly turned to see that he was in front of Walhart himself. His leg had been broken from his own fall, and the gladiators had clearly done nothing to treat it. "Conrad!"

"Courtney." He replied weakly. "Just stay calm."

Courtney looked up to Walhart. "Please! You have to do something for him! He's hurt! He's your prisoner, you have to treat him fairly!"

Walhart wasn't listening. "Are you watching?" To Courtney's horror, Walhart took a knife and simply slit Conrad's throat. He held him up by the head until he finally died, then shoved his corpse into a pool of his own blood.

"CONRA-HAAAD!" Courtney wailed. "He was like family to me! You monster! Why did you do that?!"

"Because I want you to understand what will happen if you don't tell me what I need to know! Who sent you?!"

"I won't tell you anything!"

"Who sent you?!"

"I'll never talk!"

Walhart surged forward and struck Courtney hard enough to tear her from Farber's grip. "Tell me!"

"Screw you!" She cried. Walhart kicked Courtney like a ball, and she was sent over a meter back.

"Tell me!"

The pain was getting to Courtney now, but she still tried to be defiant. "I would die for my King!"

"You realize you just told him what he wanted to know?" Ruger taunted as he stepped forward. Courtney slowly rose to her feet and glared at Walhart.

"Maybe, but that's all you're going to get from me!"

"I believe you." Walhart didn't acknowledge Courtney's bravery. He just struck her in the head, and she collapsed to the floor with a cracking noise. "This site is compromised!" He said to the other gladiators as he turned. "Everyone get ready to leave."

Farber walked over to Courtney. "What about her?"

"She's not a useful tool. There's no point in keeping her around."

Courtney couldn't control her fear anymore, and she raised her arm in desperation. "Oh, Mila help me!"

"No god will save you now, soldier. The only thing that matters in this world is the will of men, and you have sided with the _wrong_ men." Walhart cracked his knuckles as he loomed over her. "Now what did you call me earlier? A monster?"

Walhart took his time killing Courtney, and the other gladiators learned to work through her tortured screams. He looked intently at his work when he was finished, and he ran his fingers through her blood as it slowly pooled under her mangled, still, lifeless form.

There was no going back now.


	5. The Gathering Storm

It was a solemn day in the royal palace of Kremnica. Courtney and Conrad had never been particularly notable members of the King's army, but they were now forever marked in the history of the Kingdom. They'd been the first members of the royal military to be killed in action in centuries. The Kingdom of Valm had weathered threats and coercion from its larger neighbors in that time, and members of the various city guards had been killed in policing actions, but no one in the King's army had fallen in his name. This had happened under Merovech's reign, and the responsibility fell on his shoulders.

He knew this full well, and he wasn't going to let their deaths be forgotten.

"Words… fail me."

The state funeral service for Courtney and Conrad was the defining event of the day. Dozens of military officers and officials including Caeldy, Cervantes, and Federico were in attendance, as were a number of nobles and over two hundred soldiers. Also in attendance were Queen Serria and King Merovech, and it was the sovereign's turn to say something about them.

Nobody really knew the late members of the Royal Scouts, and the speeches given were filled with either hollow praise or bitter condemnations of the Kronshtadt working classes. Merovech knew full well how impersonal it all was. The bodies of the two hadn't even been recovered, and the emptiness of their caskets morbidly symbolized this. The King couldn't be emotional for just two of the many soldiers that would willingly die in his name, but he fully believed they deserved respect, and he could at least be emotional for what their loss represented.

"Words… fall short of the mark. They're not enough. They never will be." Merovech continued, his voice low and subdued. "It's never easy to lose a comrade. I know how long it's been since a soldier in my dynasty's army fell in the line of duty. This is my responsibility. They died in… in my name. This is a terrible day for all of Valm." Merovech's eyes fell. "Death is always hard to deal with, but it becomes a tragedy when it's senseless. When nothing comes of it." To the shock of everyone, Merovech angrily slammed his fist against Courtney's casket, and his voice now boomed. "But this is no tragedy, because something will come from this! These two who would give their lives for Valm did not die in vain! Sometimes change comes from violence and loss! It may take time for us to see a purpose in it, but it will always present itself in time." Merovech turned and stood tall as he looked over the crowd. "But to me, the loss of these brave soldiers presents an immediate purpose! A startling crystal clarity! There is clearly a cancer festering in my Kingdom, and I will ensure the carcinogens are purged before anyone else is hurt! These rebels have my attention. The question now is what I'll do with it. Valm is bleeding, but I will save her."

Merovech stayed behind as the funeral came to an end, and he stood staring aimlessly at the marble gravestones for the two in the royal military cemetery until Captain Caeldy came up to him. Caeldy brought her soft, red irises to her liege, but he didn't turn back to her, so she placed her hand on his shoulder and gently rocked him. The King was more than a lord and employer to Caeldy. He was a childhood friend, and she could tell when something had truly gotten to him. "My King… you took it so… personally."

"Call me by my name, Caeldy. The name you knew me by when we were young. When it felt like we were equals… even as all those faceless nobles told me how far above you and Serria I really was. I don't want to be reminded of my position right now."

"You are my lord, and I am the Captain of your Pegasus Knights. That's how it is." Merovech looked to Caeldy, and her lips curled into a warm smile. "But you're still my friend… Merovech."

"But equality is an important basis of friendship… and I can't feel equal to you. Not when you'd sacrifice yourself to protect me. Just like they did."

"It's not your fault."

"I ordered the operation, and I didn't stay to plan it. Maybe if I had things would have gone differently."

"I'm sure you had important business to attend to-"

"I had my wife to attend to."

"... oh." Caeldy tried not to show her discomfort, but a twinge of remorse always hit her when she thought about her friend and former comrade. Caeldy had always thought it'd be inappropriate for someone of her station to pursue her feelings for the King, but then Serria strolled in and stumbled right into his arms.

"Caeldy, I need to take responsibility for this."

"But my King… Merovech, the people need a strong leader to look to."

"I don't feel like that leader."

"But you are." Caeldy found herself losing herself in Merovech's blue eyes. She didn't even remember she had her hand on him until she noticed it in the corner of her vision, and she slowly ran it along his shoulder and closer to his neck as she stepped closer. "That emotion you felt for those two is a strength. You care about your Kingdom, and people see that. You'll inspire them, and you'll give them strength. I know you will."

"I'm not sure."

"Well… I am. A King needs his officers."

The two shared a peaceful moment, but it probably didn't mean the same to Merovech as it did to Caeldy. Merovech didn't jump back like Caeldy did when Serria approached. "There you are." The Queen's eyes fell to her old friend. "Captain?"

"My Queen. We were discussing the operation that lead to this. Is there anything you needed?" Caeldy had gotten pretty good at maintaining a professional demeanor, and she stood tall and spoke calmly, but Serria still saw through it.

"I'm fine, thank you. Of course… if I remember from my time as a Pegasus Knight, the stables always did need cleaning."

"Oh, of course. I'll have the recruits work on that immediately." Caeldy power walked away. "Or m-maybe I'll just do it."

Merovech returned to staring at the caskets as Serria approached. "What were you two talking about?!"

"Hmm?" The King seemed innocently unaware of his wife's tone. "Just the operation that lead to this. And… if I'm capable of leading. She thinks so… but I'm not so sure."

Serria softened as she leaned into him. "You don't have to be so hard on yourself, Merov…"

"But I do. Something has to change, and they won't get away with this…"

* * *

*coughing* "Oh gods, oh—*cough*—gods."

"Hold on. I'm coming."

It was a quiet day in Kronshtadt. The murder of the Royal Scouts had yet to cause problems for the Deliverance, but Walhart didn't want to take any chances. He had his army disperse into smaller cells operating around the city, and Walhart himself currently resided in a small shack outside of town. He didn't even go into Kronshtadt for supplies, instead relying on Ruger and his black market contacts to get by. He was off the grid now, so to speak. Make no mistake, Walhart wasn't simply hiding. He was preparing to move, and many of his cells had been sent to relocate to other cities. He was going to take his Deliverance across the Kingdom, and he'd start where his other life had ended.

Sakdrisi.

*coughing* "Ack! Grrg… erkk… hrm—*coughing*—hrng."

Walhart had been furiously writing on a piece of paper, and he held his finger up without looking. "Hold on. Just let me finish this sentence."

"No! No, ignore me. *coughing* Ignore me. Keep writing."

Walhart finally got up and approached with a bucket of fresh water. "I am ignoring you. Now come on. Drink."

Gracchus wasn't able to join Walhart's army of gladiators, for obvious reasons, but Walhart wouldn't abandon his friend. Gracchus had worked tirelessly as an editor and proofreader for his writings, and Walhart couldn't have spread his version of _Peace In Our Time_ without him. Walhart had since abandoned trying to change society through the pen, but he still wrote, and Gracchus still helped him to edit his work. Beyond that, he owed Gracchus.

Unfortunately, Gracchus' condition had worsened over the past two thirds of a year. The haphazard amputation of his legs had caused edema, an abnormal buildup of fluids underneath the skin. The swelling was so bad that you could leave an indent on Gracchus' thighs by pushing with your finger, and it caused him unending agony. Despite the application of the healing stave, the tissue at the end of the former miner's stumps had become necrotic, and it was now a sickly brown color. Gracchus had put on weight from the lack of caloric expenditure, and a rather unpleasant odor followed him around as he couldn't always make it to the outhouse as easily as you'd want to. Lastly, Gracchus had come down with some kind of illness, though Walhart didn't see how that connected to the amputation. Perhaps he was dying. Maybe he was simply losing the will to go on.

"Come on, Walhart. You don't have to do so much for me."

Walhart picked up a glass and filled it with some of the water. "Drink, Gracchus. You need to keep your strength up. I'm going to sit here until you drink this."

Walhart tried to bring the glass to his lips, but he angrily slapped him away and took the glass himself. "For Naga's sake. At least leave me some dignity." Gracchus drank the water and lied back into his bed. "So how's the writing coming along?"

"Almost done."

Gracchus have a weak smile. "You know, I was afraid you'd stopped after you became a gladiator. I'm glad you still write. The people need to hear what you have to say."

"Yes, and they will _hear_ it." Walhart retrieved his paper and handed it to him. "Actually, would you mind reading what I have?"

"I'd be honored." Gracchus read intently, but he looked more and more puzzled as he continued. "This doesn't read like a written work. Is… this a speech?"

"Yes. Of course, the exact speech I'll give will change each time. That's just something to go off of."

Gracchus furrowed his brow as he handed it back. "What happened to your treatises? Your polemics?"

"It's not enough. We distributed those copies of _Peace In Our Time_ , but nothing changed! You need to speak to a man's soul to electrify him! Speeches are what really inspire people. Not written words."

"Books do have an advantage, you know. You can silence a speech. You can't silence the written word. Not if you spread it enough."

"Yes you can."

"How?"

"By denying education to the common masses so most of them can't even read. The treatises will never work, Gracchus."

"You're… not wrong. I always knew so few working people would be able to read your work. I guess I had a silly notion that those in power might read it. That they'd want to change, if for no other reason than because they feared the discontent that could be developing in the lowborn."

Walhart recoiled as he remembered Tyranus. How it had happened because he got ahold of his writings. "I don't cling to foolish hopes that the nobles and lords might be motivated by a phantom threat. I will _create_ that discontent. I'm still trying to change society, Gracchus."

"I believe you, but I find myself wondering how." Gracchus took very deep breaths to steady himself. He was trying to suppress his urge to cough, but more than that, he seemed to be working up the courage to speak to Walhart again. "You've changed, Walhart. I knew the man I spent all those late night hours working with was gone when I learned about what happened to your family, but you've changed even since then. The fighting in the pits… that changed you. You've found your true power, and you won't go back to pretending you don't have it."

"Gracchus?"

"The pit bosses only wanted money, but you want an army. You've radicalized all of these gladiators. They were already willing to fight. Now you're pushing them to kill, and to campaign, and to conquer. I always knew most people wouldn't be able to read your work, but I liked it because it was… peaceful. If people were motivated by the spread of ideas, it would cause change without conflict."

"We don't live in a perfect world. All governments rule through repression and force, and they would use it to stop us if we ever threatened their control. The pen is not mightier than the sword when authors are censored. When most people can't read!"

"I understand that. Just remember. The average person isn't motivated by ideology. They just want to be comfortable. They want to put food on the table. They want their children to grow up safe. You'll never win the hearts of the people by lashing out against all of society. The working classes—civilians—are always the true victims of conflict. I fear you'll lose sight of your goal, and you'll bring suffering to the class of people you claim to care about."

"I _do_ care about them."

"Oh? You won't end up using them for your own purpose? The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Walhart scowled. "If you have a point to make, I suggest you get to it."

Gracchus returned to coughing, and it lasted over a minute before he could collect himself. "Just… think about the men, Walhart. The gladiators, or rather, _your_ gladiators. Why do you think they're here?"

"Why did they join the Deliverance?"

"They joined you because you're the boss, and you promised them something better. That's not hard to figure out. No, I'm asking why you think they became gladiators in the first place. Why would anyone fight for the entertainment of strangers?"

"For glory. To feel like they're in control of their lives. To earn recognition they'd never get otherwise."

"I think it's even simpler than that. It, *cough* it makes them feel like _men_. Masculinity is, is more fragile than we'd like to think. Society asks men to be providers. To be strong, and to prove themselves against other men. To not show weakness. To be leaders."

"And?"

"Feudalism asks the opposite. It asks people to serve. To mind their betters. To be dependent on your lords for your livelihoods, and to understand that you are beneath them. It asks working men to accept that they are inferior to the landed aristocrats, not because they proved themselves our betters, but because they were born into privilege. It challenges a traditional view of masculinity—nature itself—and leaves men feeling… hollow. That is why society accepts, no, _encourages_ sports. Alcohol. Prostitution. Religion. They're all things that make men forget… the emptiness of their existence. The men that are too bothered to forget…" Gracchus weakly pointed to Walhart. "They found you."

"What do you mean?"

"Those gladiators felt that they lead empty lives. They wanted an outlet. They wanted to feel masculine. To be strong, and independent, and in control of their lives like men are 'supposed' to be. They never found that as farmers, or miners, or workers, but they found it in the pits. They felt like they were truly part of something. Like they weren't so directionless. Then you came in and rallied these men. Stoked the flames the pits sparked. You're a charismatic leader that makes them feel whole. Makes them feel strong. You make them feel like they can decide their own destinies."

"What's wrong with that?"

*coughing* "If only everyone could read. If those men could have read your writings instead, you would have enlightened them, but they couldn't, and you _didn't_. Instead you promised them power and the strength to make society change. You've _radicalized_ them. Now they believe it's a matter of 'us' and 'them'. They're ready to lash out at society." Gracchus looked right into his eyes. "I truly fear what you're creating. Unleash enlightened men upon a society, and they'll build a new order. Unleashed radicalized men on a society, and they'll strike at everything. They'll kill. They'll rape. They'll steal. They'll burn. They'll think themselves righteous for it, because they'll think they've found enemies that 'deserve' it. You'll bring only suffering, and you'll turn those you haven't radicalized against you forever. You'll only make the feudalists look justified in cracking down on society."

"What do you want from me?" Walhart stood up in frustration. "We can't play by their rules! The system is rigged! I want a revolution—I want all the people to march as one—but the system is designed to marginalize us! We need to start over. Revolutions are not dinner parties. They are violent and traumatic, but that doesn't mean good can't come out of them. The questions of the day will not be solved through writings by random miners! They will only be solved through blood, and iron, and force of will!" Walhart sat back down. "Violence is the only universal language. It's the only thing that is immune to classism. A lowborn man talks to you about inequality, and you stick your nose up at him. He tells you how much his family suffers, and you put him in the back of your mind as you go home to yours. He tells you that you've gotten rich off of his work, and you simply tell him to work harder or to stop asking for handouts. Only when the poor man comes back with an army do you actually _listen_."

Gracchus looked subdued, as if he feared Walhart getting any more worked up. "I don't claim to know the answers, Walhart. I just want you to be wary of what you're creating."

"I know what I have to do, Gracchus." Walhart gave him a softer look. "I do still need your help. I need a proofreader, and you could help me write my speeches."

"Oh?"

"You make me think about my own beliefs and why I hold them. A leader needs this. I still need you, Gracchus. Please don't… give up."

Gracchus chuckled. "Afraid I'll die on you? That happens in war, you know. The 'others' are often scapegoated, purged, or left to fend for themselves. The sick, the weak, ethnic and religious minorities, political dissidents, gays, cripples, non-humans like manaketes and taguel." Gracchus made a crude farting noise with his tongue. "All gone. I won't last a day. You think the gladiators you control would lift a finger to help 'the cripple'?"

"Blunt as ever, Gracchus." Walhart placed a hand on his shoulder. "You matter to me, and I'll keep you safe. Now, will you help me or not?"

The former miner slowly nodded. "If you really will keep writing, then I'll help you. Just be careful in Sakdrisi. It's the seat of Commodia's power."

"Oh, he knows that better than anyone. He threw a rock at her once." Walhart turned to see that Ruger let himself into the cabin. ""Knock, knock. Everything's set up. We're ready to head out to Sakdrisi."

"Alright." Walhart stood up and returned to his desk. "Just let me get a few things ready."

Farber followed shortly behind Ruger, and he stood at attention. "Everything's accounted for, Walhart."

"Thank you, Farber."

"I just… I'm worried. I'm sure Commodia remembers what happened. The guards could arrest you just for showing up if they recognize you, and you're planning to make public speeches?"

"It's necessary."

"I'm just worried."

"I'll be fine. Besides, we're not relying on the city guard to be nice. The weapons we'll bring will be more than enough to give our cell a lasting presence in the city." Walhart looked back to them. "How is Sakdrisi, by the way? Has it changed much?"

"The mine is finally automated." Farber responded. "They have Einherjar working non-stop. I think they're actually going to have a ceremony to honor Commodia soon. Other than that it's the same city. Sometimes I think about whether I like Kronshtadt better or not. On one hand, Sakdrisi is surrounded by those ugly hills stripped bare by centuries of mining. On the other hand, it's not by the ocean, so there aren't seagulls crapping everywhere."

"I've always liked it." Ruger chimed in. "The red light district there is better than anything you'll find this side of the Mila Tree, and I should know. My wench wanderlust has lead me all over this great continent."

Farber gave him a side glance. "What a… fascinating story, Ruger. I'm so glad you decided to share it."

"Oh yeah, that's right. You don't care much for the fairer sex. More of a back door bandit, big guy?"

Farber didn't take that well at all. "You remember hiring me as a gladiator, don't you? If I could stand up to those other gladiators, what's stopping me from snapping you like a toothpick?"

"Hey! Woah! I thought _you people_ were supposed to be sensitive and crap!"

"ENOUGH!" Walhart slammed his fist against the desk, and both men quickly fell silent. "We have work to do! Ruger, get the carriages ready to move! Remember to tell the drivers not to travel as a group. They go at separate times to avoid attracting suspicion."

Farber stepped forward eagerly, as if he felt the need to prove himself after Walhart snapped at him. "What about me?"

"You're not coming, Farber."

"Huh?!"

Walhart placed his hand on Farber's shoulder reassuringly. "Someone needs to lead the gladiators here until it is time for them to be moved. Keep them organized."

Farber stood tall. "I'll leave them exactly as you found them. No! They'll be better!"

The two clasped hands, and Farber and Ruger left. Walhart turned back to Gracchus. "Do you need anything before you go? More water? Food?"

"No."

"Do you need to use the restroom?"

"Tiki's scales, Walhart! Don't say it like _that_. I'm not a child!" Gracchus looked down. "But… I should probably go."

* * *

Though the Kingdom of Valm was small, there was still a great diversity in the atmosphere of its cities. What was a quiet and uneventful day for Kronshtadt and a melancholy day for Kremnica was a lively and exuberant festival for Sakdrisi. The fully automated gold mine had been churning out ore for two weeks now, and the ceremony to honor Commodia and her tireless service to the city had been held today. Commodia herself gave a speech in front of the reopened mine, going on and on about how it represented the endurance and dedication of Sakdrisi. The Einherjar constantly working in the background without even acknowledging the gathered crowd certainly added to her points. She was given an award by a representative from Kremnica, and all of Sakdrisi was alive with revelry that day.

Of course, the average person cared very little for Commodia, but a temporary relaxation on alcohol taxation and public drinking laws certainly helped to improve their opinion of her for the day.

Commodia wanted the city to cheer for her. To love her. To acknowledge her. She needed it, but not for herself. She didn't care what commoners thought of her. She needed it to prove her worth to someone in particular. Commodia rarely spent any time with her, but the Magistrate's mind was consumed with a need for her attention whenever she did visit.

"I'm so glad you could make it today, mother."

The day was winding down now, and Commodia was preparing to part ways with her guest. The two women were currently in one of the former living areas for the miners. Einherjar didn't need to rest, so Commodia had it converted into an administration building. The top floor was fitted with the luxury she was used to, and the room she currently found herself in had been made into a kind of VIP box. It offered an ugly view of the mine through its window, rather than a sporting venue, but it also featured expensive furniture, a fireplace, and even a bar. There was enough room for dozens of people, but Commodia was alone with an elderly woman now. Her retinue had been dismissed for the day, and even the bartender was sent away.

"Well, you did make such a fuss about it. I knew you wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I couldn't make it."

Commodia had a hopeful look on her face, but it faded a little as she handed a glass of brandy to her mother. "Please, mother. This was important to me."

"Yes. So you've said many times."

Commodia's mother was in her late fifties now. She had fair skin like Commodia, and their dresses weren't entirely dissimilar, but it was clear her daughter had mostly taken after her late husband. Her eyes were a dull brown as opposed to Commodia's piercing green, and her once blonde hair had turned gray from age whereas Commodia had a rare natural silver color. Though a commoner like Walhart might think of the Magistrate as a stuck up noblewoman, her own mother's body language seemed to imply that Kremnica nobles like her thought of local bureaucrats like Commodia as country bumpkins. Her posture was unfailingly straight and proper, and there was an elegance ingrained into her every movement that Commodia just didn't have. She radiated smugness, and her daughter had to take it just as much as all the commoners she'd seen that day had. "Well… what did you think?" Her daughter asked eagerly.

"It was nice, for a _rural_ event." The noblewoman took a sip of her brandy. "Ooh. Not as smooth as I'd like, though I am used to what we have back in Kremnica."

"That's from my private reserve, mother. It's from the capital."

"Hmm." She responded dismissively. It was a simple one syllable noise, but it seemed to jab at Commodia's ego like a knife would her body. "Perhaps good brandy just doesn't keep in a place like this."

"Don't be like this, mom." Commodia said, her voice more of a whine than she intended. "That ceremony was for my achievement here. I told you about how important this automation is. I may have set the standard for the whole Kingdom! I did something here."

"Yes, yes. I was at the ceremony, dear. You kept me by your side the whole time."

"Why don't you have more to say to me? I was honored today! Now come on. Really tell me. What did you think?"

"It was nice, dear. Don't get into one of your moods. You know I can't talk to you when you're like that."

"I am not-" Commodia took a deep breath and forced a smile. "It was more than just nice, mother. An official from Kremnica honored me. I'm one step closer to working there someday. To gaining the King's personal favor. That's what you wanted."

"And I'm happy for you, sweetie." Commodia stared at her mother, sure she'd undermine the comment in some way. Sure enough… "I just wish you'd stayed there, is all. I mean, heh, come on, Commodia. You were born there in the capital, and now you brag about having the _chance_ to go back? Your brothers already have positions there, and let me tell you, they don't constantly nag me about these kinds of events.

"They don't 'nag' you because you always go to their events on your own!"

"Because I live there, sweetheart. It's hard to come down here to… oh what do they call this town again?"

"It's not just a town, mother. It's, it's one of the most important cities in the Kingdom!"

"Hmph. You can forgive me for thinking otherwise with all the dust and grime. I'll tell you this, Commodia. I don't have to have my dresses cleaned so extensively after visiting your brothers."

There was nothing Commodia loathed more than being compared to her brothers. Commodia had three all-male siblings. Two older brothers, who relentlessly teased and harried her growing up as older brothers do, and one younger brother, who seemed to always receive more attention from their parents as younger brothers do. Commodia grew up frustrated with all three of them, but her normal sibling rivalry decayed into bitter resentment as her parents gradually grew to ignore her. Commodia's parents groomed her brothers into government positions within their home city of Kremnica, but their only daughter was simply expected to marry. Knowing full well she'd never be taken seriously there, Commodia looked to other cities to earn the power she so craved, but her parents never seemed to see her accomplishments. While her brothers earned praise from their mother for their minor accomplishments in the noble court, Commodia only received derision just because she lived outside the capital.

"Why do you always have to compare me to them?!"

"You said it yourself. You want to work in the capital. Your brothers are already there."

"None of them have gotten to where I am! What are they? A lieutenant in the palace guard? A minor official? A glorified secretary? I'm a Magistrate!"

"A _rural_ Magistrate."

"I've still done more than they have! Besides, I couldn't stay in the capital! They wouldn't give me a job in the government there!"

"You could have married a man in the government."

"I don't want to get married. _I_ want the position! Me! Women don't have to be accessories of men, mother!"

"You really need to watch that abrasive side of yours, dear. It's not very ladylike."

"You're always going on about men!"

"Because you're alone, dearie. Youth fades-"

"Don't say it."

"Fertility fades." Commodia's mother swirled the expensive brandy she had no intention of finishing around. "Being a mother is a very rewarding experience. Besides, who's going to take care of me when I'm old and gray? You?"

"You already have a grandchild."

"And isn't your niece just adorable? Don't you want that?"

"I'm focused on my work! I'll get to the capital one day, mom! I just need time!"

"There's a faster way. There are several eligible bachelors in the palace who still inquire about you."

"They just want my money."

"Well they're certainly not attracted to that temperament of yours. What's wrong with getting married?" Commodia's mother glared. "You're not hiding a relationship with a _lowborn_ man are you?"

"For the millionth time. No!"

"Are you… gay?"

"No!"

"I'd still love you even if you were experimenting with thespians, or whatever they're called. Just… you could still have a child first."

"I am not continuing this conversation!"

"There you go. Having one of your moods again."

Commodia's anger was subverted by genuine disappointment. "Mom… enough. This was important to me. I was honored today. I just thought… for once you'd be… proud of me."

"Is that was this is about?"

"You never say it."

The noblewoman gave her daughter a seemingly compassionate look as she placed a hand on her shoulder. "I am proud of you, daughter. You've done very well… for a _rural_ bureaucrat. I love you… even if you seem to reject everything I've done for you."

"Gee, thanks."

"I could do without the snark, dear."

Commodia trembled with frustration at this point. "Well, uh, look at the time. I'm sure you're tired, mother."

"Well, there's only so much of this disgusting place I can take in a day." Commodia's mother set her glass down and stood in front of her daughter. "Now come on. Give your mother a hug." Commodia embraced her, and she responded by slapping the back of her head. "No! Don't hold yourself like you're made of wood. No wonder you're alone. Really put your arms around me." Very reluctantly, Commodia gave her mother a proper hug, and she kissed her cheek as she let go. "Love you, sweetie."

"I love you too… mother."

"Hmm, maybe you should let your hair cover more of your forehead, dear. All this dust is aging you." The noblewoman slapped her daughter's chin upwards. "And stand up straighter. Your posture is horrible."

"Yes, mother."

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yes… _mother_."

Commodia's mother left, leaving the Magistrate alone. She couldn't do anything but stand in place for several minutes. She tried desperately to suppress her frustration, to not let it get to her, but she couldn't let it go. She broke and sprinted to the bottle of brandy, her movements erratic. She seized the brandy and was about to pour herself a glass, but she hesitated for several seconds, and ultimately decided to take a long swig directly from the bottle. She'd killed a third of it when she finally set it down, brandy dripping down her face and staining her dress. "Damn it all. Nothing is ever good enough for her! Oh what the world would be without mothers." Commodia thought she was alone, so she almost jumped in place when she saw Decius had let himself in at some point. "Captain?!"

Decius cleared his throat. "Magistrate."

Commodia hated showing weakness. She'd have snapped at anyone else, but Decius was different. The two were much closer. "Decius… tell me I'm important."

"Magistrate?"

"Tell me I matter. Tell me I'm important!"

Decius didn't skip a beat. Commodia's eccentricities were just part of the job to him. "You are the most important person in the city, milady."

"Tell me I'm more important than all three of my brothers!"

Decius stepped forward and knelt down on one knee. Commodia extended her hand, and he kissed her signet ring. It was a classic sign of subservience, but Commodia also seemed to bring out a gentleness from Decius. Commodia in turn laid her other hand on Decius' head and ran it through his hair in an affectionate manner. The two weren't friends, but they'd been part of each other's lives for years. An alliance of convenience could be stronger than any friendship if both parties benefited enough. "You are more important than any of your brothers, milady."

Commodia calmed down. "Thank you, Captain. I'm sorry you had to see that." Commodia cleared her throat, and her commanding aura returned. "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

Decius stood up. "My investigation into the fire has yielded impressive results."

"You figured out who made the mages intoxicated?"

"No, but I have information on what became of some of the miners that survived the revolt."

"Why does that matter?"

"It involves the miner who killed the soldier that day. The one who threw a rock at you. As it turns out, family members of his were killed in the fire, and he's organized a rebellion. He's attracted the attention of the King himself, and he _killed_ the Royal Scouts sent to investigate him."

"How do you know this?"

"The Captain of the Kronshtadt city guard told me."

"Really? Maybe I should try to contact him."

"I took the liberty of arranging that, milady. Allow me to introduce her." Decius stepped to the side as an armored woman stepped into the room. "This is Zarqawi."

To the Magistrate's surprise, Decius' Kronshtadt counterpart was a woman, but she looked more out of place with the Magistrate than she did with the city guard. Zarqawi was a heavily built, bullnecked woman who carried around her silvery polished plate armor with more grace than Commodia did her robes. She had brown irises so dark that the center of her eyes were almost solid black, and light blonde hair cut short. You might call it boyish if it weren't on a steel plated servicewoman. Zarqawi had over a head on Commodia, and the Magistrate would swear she gave a small, mocking smile as Commodia tried to stick her chin up at a woman that physically looked down on her. "Ah, you're the Captain of the Kronshtadt City Guard."

"Former Captain." Zarqawi answered, her voice deep and resonating. " _Your_ counterpart in the city and I had a… disagreement." Zarqawi placed her hands behind her back and stood up straight, forcing Commodia to crane her neck even further to continue the conversation. "The city guard there didn't sit on its arse while this rebellion festered in the dark. We knew about it, but the Magistrate refused to let us act. This movement—this army that calls itself the Deliverance—was born from underground fight clubs."

"What the hell was going on in your city?!"

"Respectfully, ma'am, every city has its problems. Kremnica has the inbred nobles, and Sakdrisi has the cheap whores. We had legions of frustrated working class men who would beat another man into unconsciousness for looking at them wrong."

Commodia turned to Decius. "What a fascinating interpretation of a police officer you've found."

"Zarqawi has pertinent information, milady."

"So how did this become a problem under your watch, Zarqawi, and why didn't you stop it?"

"The Magistrate kept our hands tied. We knew about the fight clubs, but he made us look the other way. He said the workers needed an outlet, and I know bribes were involved. I wanted to crush them before it became a problem. Before _parts_ of two Royal Scouts turned up in the town square. I made it clear it was his fault. He didn't agree."

"And now her services are available to us." Decius added.

"And why do we need you?"

Zarqawi gave a sinister grin. "Think about it, Magistrate. I don't officially work for you."

Commodia's dismissive tone faded. "You'd dip your hands in muddied water?"

"And do things that will never be connected back to the _official_ police."

Commodia considered it, and her mind—the twisted, greed choked mind that had clawed its way through the feudal system—produced all kinds of strategies for her new plausibly deniable asset. "Understand this, I don't want him martyred. Do this quietly."

* * *

Walhart worked quickly once he returned to the city that he once called home. Ruger had installed cells of his Deliverance throughout the city, and front businesses he already had connections to helped to fund them. Ruger had little personal love for Walhart's cause. He'd only worked for the pit bosses because of the profits, and there was nothing forcing him to stay with his new boss. Ruger didn't work hard unless he personally gained something from it, but Walhart's insurgency created plenty of opportunity for a man of his craft.

Gracchus never told Walhart how he'd distributed his writings. In truth, his family had always maintained ties to criminal groups in their merchant days, and Gracchus had employed smugglers to move the copies he and Walhart produced through the city. Ruger expanded on these ties to slowly nurture a copy of Kronshtadt's underground in Sakdrisi. Fight clubs were set up, and the lower class men of Sakdrisi joined as readily as the sailors and dock workers of Kronshtadt had. Small matches set up in basements were made available to crowds and featured betting, but the men that chose to be gladiators were radicalized into joining the Deliverance. Those who weren't ideologically driven were slowly filtered out. Those who were willing to follow Walhart were gradually lead further and further down the slippery slope by Walhart's rhetoric until they became willing to kill and be killed for him. In addition, the copies of _Peace In Our Time_ had actually managed to attract a few educated men and women to Walhart's cause, and he put them to work as administrators in the growing organization. Within a month, the Deliverance went from about two hundred people to over five hundred. Ruger's activities slowly built an underground platform for Walhart. Now he just needed to make his speeches.

Walhart's rhetoric slowly radicalized those who came to listen, but something curious happened. In a way, the audience would come to further radicalize him. Make him more narrow minded in his focus.

Though he never thought of himself as a sexual chauvinist, Walhart's views inevitably attracted more men than women. Men made up the gladiators, the core of his army, and Ruger's unsavory allies were virtually all male. The Deliverance was a sausage fest from the get go, and Walhart's speeches failed to change this. He didn't see why women couldn't hold the views he did, but Walhart viewed the world through the lens of a male laborer, and that was how he connected to his audience. He often gendered terms in his speeches, sometimes without meaning to, and he spoke of the male dominated professions of the medieval period he was used to—mining, farming, and unskilled work—and never of the female lead professions and tasks he wasn't familiar with. A few women would sometimes show up, but they generally came to think that Walhart's movement wasn't for them. After awhile, only the handful of literate women that had joined remained—no lower class—and Walhart had them employed as organizers and secretaries without realizing or caring how stereotypical this was in and of itself. Walhart gave up trying to recruit women. His focus was narrowed.

Walhart's speeches appealed to the uneducated laborers of the lower classes, but he'd hoped he could also attract educated people who would be persuaded by the righteousness of his views. A few skilled craftsmen and educated bourgeois showed up to his rallies, but they were always in the minority. Medieval societies were generally divided between lowborn peasants and land owning nobles, (with other groups like the clergy and knights falling somewhere in between) but the modern middle class has its origins there too. Walhart likened these middle class craftsmen, merchants, bankers, and intellectuals to deer. He could tell they were around somewhere, but they were a rare sighting and very easily spooked. Some genuinely were moved by his rhetoric, but they didn't like how much he focused on the poor. This could have been born from greed and classism, but it could also have been fear. The middle class was far below the nobility, but it was much richer than the lower class. What was to stop them from being targeted by the Deliverance? What was to stop their lower class peers from taking their wealth when the revolution came? From putting them against the wall in their class based frenzy? Furthermore, many members of the middle class felt they worked to be where they were. For example, it took years for a skilled craftsman to learn his trade. He didn't like being told he was _equal_ to unskilled laborers that learned their trades in hours. Walhart failed to reassure the bourgeois that were sympathetic to his cause, so they stopped showing up. Walhart gave up trying to recruit the middle class. His focus was narrowed.

Walhart had always distrusted the church, but he knew how the lower class tended to represent the most religious people. He knew he'd alienate many of his followers if he was too critical of the gods. He tried to make it clear he was attacking the church, not religion itself, but Walhart really did come to hate overly spiritual people. He failed to separate his hatred of religion from his hatred of the church as an institution, and he often criticized the intelligence of the devout without intending to. Deeply religious workers stopped showing up. Walhart gave up trying to recruit the faithful. His focus was narrowed.

When Walhart was young and naive—when Hildegard still breathed—he viewed soldiers as comrades. They too were mostly uneducated young men and women. They should logically be sympathetic to his views. As Walhart became more radical, his opinion on the men and women in uniform soured. He demonized them as soulless murderers who traded their individuality, their very humanity, to be cogs in a machine. Without soldiers, he would say, there would be no tyrants. They were regime apologists. Many on leave soldiers and police officers had shown up to his rallies, thinking he could create a better world for them, but Walhart's rhetoric alienated them. Furthermore, many people had family members serving as soldiers, and they too were disgusted. Walhart gave up trying to recruit soldiers. His focus was narrowed.

Walhart was ultimately left with only a particular demographic—young, lower class, uneducated male laborers with no connection to the government. Walhart didn't care. These men were the basis—the very foundation—of any agricultural society. These angry, frustrated, marginalized, rootless men gave him power.

All he had to do was mobilize it.

Walhart was giving a speech to about two dozen men. "My brothers, look around you! Look at this world! Look at this inequality! The privilege! The excess! Is this the world Alm and Celica truly wanted to create?! I refuse to accept that! I was born a peasant, denied education, but I had the rare luxury of learning to read, and I put that to good use! I read the works of Celica, and the volumes of Alm's successor, Kyros! I read the chronicles of the Hero King's war against Medues and Dohlr! Of the First Exalt's defeat of Grima! These were all great men and women! They used strength to save humanity! Free us from the tyranny of gods! If the spoiled, inbred men and women that called themselves our leaders were asked to defend us now, they would crumble! The strong, the intelligent, they have not been allowed to rise in society! The upper classes contribute nothing! They are parasites! Society is based on lineage, not merit! The most inbred King is still a King. The strongest and most intelligent peasant is still a peasant! All the feudalists care about is labels!"

Walhart was speaking to fifty men now. "We, the working classes, have no representation in government. The nobles who lord over us have no idea how we truly live. They don't understand our problems! We have no way to criticize them, and when we try, they call us ungrateful. They say we're ignoring the opportunities they give us. They say we're simply asking for handouts. They say we owe them our fealty. There should be a way for us to criticize and change the government! All ideas, all poisonous weeds, all ghosts and monsters, must be subjected to criticism; in no circumstance should they be allowed to spread unchecked. However, the criticism should be fully reasoned, analytical and convincing, and not rough, bureaucratic, metaphysical or dogmatic!"

Walhart spoke to over a hundred men now. "The feudalists are paper manaketes! They have no real power over us. We, the working classes, constitute the nation! If the laborers were to rise up as one, we would be as a people's storm that would sweep the parasites and nobles from the land. Yes, they have their soldiers, but is a man motivated by coin stronger than a man who fights for a real cause? In class society, everyone lives as a member of a particular class, and every kind of thinking, without exception, is stamped with the brand of a class. They will never take us seriously because lineage is the organizing principle of society. We cannot play by their rules. The existing system will never represent us. It cannot be fixed! It is time to start over. We will be as a deluge, a cleansing flood. We will tear down the old, rotten house, we will wipe out the termites, and we will build a stronger structure! After all, who would you rather have as a foundation for society? The spoiled nobles, or working men such as us!"

Walhart spoke to a hundred and fifty men now. "Some of you may think me too radical. You fear the revolution that comes. My brothers, the road ahead may be uncertain, but our cause is just! Maybe hundreds will die, but they die so hundreds of millions of people born and yet to be born can live in a just society! We cannot coexist with the old order. In science, when an old theory is disproved, it does not stand alongside the correct theory. It is discarded! Society should be no different. Some of you may sympathize with the feudalists, but I ask why. Why don't you want the chance to rise through merit and force of will? Tell me, Mr. Farmer. Do you feel equal to your landlord? Tell me, Mr. Writer. Do you feel equal to your publisher? Tell me, Mr. Laborer. Do you feel equal to the foreman? Tell me, Mr. Peasant. Do you feel equal to your King? Do you truly feel that you could rise to be where they are? There is no mobility in society, but there can be! We all seek a just world. We don't want to accept the reality that the world is corrupt and unfair, so we apologize for it. We try to tell ourselves that everything is fair. That society is like this for a reason. My brothers, I want you to seek that just world, but not by pretending feudalism is fair. I want you to seek the just world by joining me in forging it!"

Walhart spoke to over two hundred people now. For the first time, he was speaking outside. In public. That's how bold he'd become. "The working classes are an all, but an all that is fettered and oppressed. Don't listen to the lords who say we owe them anything. Don't listen to the King who says we should be happy to revere him. Don't listen to the priests that say your loyalty belongs to Naga, or Tiki, or Mila, or any other imagined lizard. Don't listen to them, and do not fear their pawns! Do not fear their soldiers! Their reactionaries! Their apologists! We are the foundation of society, and the feudalists would collapse if we turned against them. Leaders, not bosses! Sentinels, not soldiers! Militias, not police! Workers, not parasites! The profit earned on our backs belongs to us and us alone! Miners, farmers, laborers, come together as a people's storm! We have nothing to lose but the chains they have forced upon us! No gods! No kingdoms! No masters!"

The men chanted back, loud enough for much of the city to hear. "NO GODS! NO KINGDOMS! NO MASTERS!"

* * *

Decius followed Zarqawi's lead as they made their way down a rather unsavory part of Sakdrisi. The two were undercover, deprived of their armor and equipped with only holdout weapons, and only their height and build set them apart from everyone else. Zarqawi stopped at a rundown tavern, and she eagerly lead Decius around to the back and pointed towards four rather thuggish looking men leaning against the structure. Decius silently seemed to question Zarqawi's decision making, so she quickly filled him in. "A lot of inexperienced police think of all criminals as the same, but you and I both know better, don't we? Criminals hardly have any love for one another. What do they love, Captain? Do you know?"

"Profit."

"And they'll happily throw each other under the carriage for it. In my time as Captain, I learned to use criminal assets to do things I didn't want my officers to be seen doing. We can do that here too. All we need is a group of men like that."

Zarqawi and Decius eyed the four. They were drinking publicly, a violation of one of Commodia's ordinances, and they all stood at attention as a young woman walked by. One man seemed to be dominant over the others. He approached the passerby in a cocky manner, and the other three were more emboldened after he moved. "Well, what do we have here, lads? Now where did you blow in from?"

Another of the men stepped forward. "Aye, lass. You ever sail the world? Ever been to sunny Plegia? Nice place, it is. Basically, we could have you's wetter than the midmire they have o'er there if you spent the arvo with us."

The lead man got as close to the woman as he could get without physically restraining her, though it didn't seem that was something he was above doing. "You're my little shortcake, ain't ya, babe? Come on. What's the hurry?" The woman was visibly disturbed, but she didn't give the four the pleasure of any kind of response as she briskly walked away. "Aw, where are you going, baby?! Don't be like that!" The two men who hadn't spoken whistled after the poor woman, but the lead man shoved the second back. "You gormless pillock! You scared her off!"

"Oi! It ain't my fault the bird was a bitch!" The second man looked over to Decius and Zarqawi, and the other three followed suit. "Hey! What're you looking at?!"

"You blokes having a giggle o'er there?!"

"I think one of thems is a woman, actually."

"Ha! Well there's a dyke minger if I ever saw one."

Zarqawi smiled. "These men are perfect. I know scum when I see it. I advise that you talk to them."

"Why must I do this?"

"Men like that will never take a woman seriously, even if she is taller than them. Go, and remember what I said. Don't beat around the bush. Get straight to the point."

Decius scowled, but he reluctantly approached the men. He reflexively stuck his chin up towards them and glared dismissively. The four didn't take it very well. "Get a load of this knobhead!"

Decius looked to the lead man. He was a young, reasonably fit man with noticeably amber eyes and curly hair that seemed to be naturally white. He wore clothing common to laborers, though he intentionally exposed most of his bare chest. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Who might I have the pleasure of talking to?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I have a business proposition for you. What do you know of Magistrate Commodia?"

"The cheeky bird who runs the city?! She put me sis in prison for four years! What's the world come to that we can't brew our own ale in the basement anymore?! So what if four blokes got poisoned. It's not our fault they couldn't hold it down. She can get crushed to death by wyvern shite for all I care!"

"Hear, hear!" The second man added. "Though she was a cute little bird in that dress she wore for the ceremony last month. I bet that slag would make for a right proper shag. I'd hit that clam so hard you'd find pearls in it."

Decius' eye twitched, but he calmed himself. "Today is your lucky day, gentlemen. You all could have the honor of serving the city."

The second man stared intently at him. "What? Wait… I recognize this man! This ain't some random pikey! This is Decius of the city guard! We've been talking to a copper this whole time!"

The first man glared at him. "Damn it! I have the worst luck. If it was raining virgins I'd be washed down the drain with a poofta. Bloody bizzies. Piss off, mate, or me and the lads will knock you upside the head harder than a Plegian peasant woman getting tag teamed by carpet muncher Pegasus Knights in the bloody Exalt's crusade, I swear on me nan!"

Decius gave an exasperated look back to Zarqawi, but she was smiling even wider now. "Just get to the point!"

Decius turned back. "The Magistrate has tasks that she _encourages_ loyal citizens of Sakdrisi to complete for her. She doesn't care what you do to accomplish them. The law will look the other way."

The man actually looked interested. "You what, mate?"

"Gentlemen, how would you like to make a lot of money?"

"She'll… pay us? And we'll be ridgey-didge?"

"I'm not deputizing you if that's what you're asking, but you're free to do _anything_ you want in completing the tasks. You'll be above the law."

The four men considered it, and they seemed to reach a silent agreement. The lead man extended his hand. "The name's Codgers, by the way."

Decius reluctantly shook hands. "So do we have a deal?"

"What kind of tasks, and how much was she offering again?"

* * *

Walhart increasingly feared that depression was causing Gracchus' deteriorating health, and he made sure to find work for him to do. The former miner currently spent his days contributing to Walhart's speeches. The two would spend hours talking, and Gracchus made his mind known about how he felt about Walhart's ideas and the men he was attracting. Sometimes the two would argue, but these weren't spats. They were spirited debates, and Gracchus was every bit Walhart's philosophical sparring partner. Gracchus' input changed Walhart's speeches occasionally, and the Deliverance leader made sure he felt appreciated.

Sometimes, Gracchus would swear, he did this too much. When Walhart wasn't speaking to Gracchus, he doted on him with increasing fondness. He helped him change, eat, and relieve himself, and his compliments started to resemble the praise you'd give a child for completing tasks adults don't think twice about. Gracchus needed help to get by, yes, but he was still a man, and he slowly started to think that he may have become a kind of replacement for Hildegard in Walhart's subconscious. He might have even become the child Walhart didn't get to have. Intellectually, he was Walhart's equal. Physically, he was someone to care for. Gracchus' depression grew worse, and he now found himself enjoying the times Walhart wasn't around more.

Gracchus created advertisements for the Deliverance's events when he wasn't helping Walhart with his speeches, and he was busy working when Ruger walked into his current safehouse. Ruger constantly moved around Sakdrisi, and Gracchus had to learn to get used to him popping in. "Trickster."

"Hey there, stumps." Ruger said with an obnoxious smile as he set down supplies of dubious origin. "No, don't worry. You don't have to get up, heh."

"Hilarious." Gracchus replied without looking up as he dipped his pen in ink.

"What's the matter, drags-a-long? No comeback this time?"

"No, Ruger. I've come to accept you for who you are."

"And who is that?"

"A man so insecure in his height he feels the need to antagonize a literal cripple. You're like the hen who's so far down on the pecking order she picks on chicks."

"Well you ain't no chick, halfsies. Chicks have their whole lives ahead of them. Your manhood is long gone, like a fart in an arcwind spell."

"Charming as ever." Gracchus set down the paper as he prepared to write on another sheet. "So what have you been up to?"

"I've got some food for your useless mouth." Ruger set a bag of supplies down by the table. "I've also got everything Walhart requested for this cell. It'd be a lot easier to get supplies if we weren't dividing five hundred people into little groups."

"We have to. It's a security measure. If the guards crack down on one cell, they won't cripple the entire army. You know how bad this city is. Sakdrisi is Commodia's little empire."

"Is it an empire if it's run by a woman?"

"Emperor is a gender sensitive word. Empire is not."

Ruger sat down nearby as he dug through some of the supplies. "Ooh, my name's Gracchus. I'm real literate. All the ladies are so impressed. They'll ignore me being half a man because reading gets you all the wenches."

"There's more to life than sex."

"Maybe, but it's an industry that sustains entire districts of cities."

The two were silent for awhile, but to Gracchus' annoyance, Ruger had been pilfering through his supplies in search of a snack. He settled on something loud and crunchy, and he didn't make the slightest effort to eat quietly. It got to Gracchus, and he decided he'd rather continue the conversation than weather it. "You never commit to anything, Ruger."

"Eh?"

"You never commit to anything. When was the last time you were with a woman?" Ruger was about to speak, but Gracchus raised his finger to cut him off. "In a real relationship. When was the last time you had a significant other?"

Ruger thought about it. "Uhh… does my mom count?"

"You're kidding me."

"The hell would anyone want to be around a woman that long for anyways? They're just wenches."

"What a wonderful attitude."

"And yet, of the two of us, who did fate decide could keep his legs? Being nice doesn't get you anywhere in life, pal. When everyone lines up to make sacrifices, get in the back of the queue."

"Women are only part of it, Ruger. You constantly hop from place to place. Even now you're not really loyal to Walhart. You just see opportunity in staying with him."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Did you ever… have any dreams? Did you ever care? Surely you didn't grow up wanting to be like…" Gracchus motioned towards him. "This."

"SCREW YOU!" The little trickster snapped. "It's hard work to do what I do! I might not have the easiest shoes to wear, but at least my feet aren't rotting in a landfill somewhere, stubby!" The silence continued for quite awhile this time, and Gracchus returned to writing. He didn't even notice Ruger had stopped eating. Looking back to him, Ruger seemed deep in thought, and there was a bit of an awkward moment when his blue eyes locked with Gracchus'. The former miner tried to return to writing, but Ruger cleared his throat. "You… really want to know?"

"Hmm?"

"About who I used to be?"

Gracchus shrugged. "I've long since abandoned the notion that you might get tired and leave, or that Walhart would chase you off, so I might as well get to know you. You may have no loyalty to us, but you will work if you smell profit."

"A man's gotta eat."

"A man doesn't build up the ties you have just because he needs to eat. How'd you come to care about money so much? It's the only thing that really matters to you."

"Not money!" Ruger corrected. "Not money. Survival. Money just makes other people less likely to step on you."

"You were born into poverty?"

"I wasn't born a prince. That's for sure. You know, it's funny when I look at Walhart, Farber, and all these other hedgeborn peasants. I… wasn't so different, but I ended up so differently. They just stuck their heads down and worked their whole lives until they finally snapped and created… this. Me? I've tried to get out of that life since I was a kid. I snapped over time. Not all at once like our boy Wally." Ruger deep breath. "Yeah. I had dreams once."

"Hmm?"

"It's… no. You'll think it's stupid."

"What's wrong with telling me? You can't possibly find talking to me intimidating."

"Fine." Ruger looked into the distance. "When I was a kid I wanted to be a… a uh… you know…"

"What?"

"A… a clockmaker. There. I said it. Real manly right?"

"... Clocks? Really?"

"Yeah I, I don't know. I thought they were interesting. People would respect my work, you know, and it'd be in high demand. They'd think of me as an artist. A creator. Not as… a little excuse for a man. I don't know. It's stupid."

"Why didn't you pursue those dreams?"

"Are you an idiot? It takes years of apprenticeship to become one. My family was dirt poor. We didn't have the connections for that. Besides, dad was sick."

"Sick?"

"Ever since I could remember. He just got sicker and sicker, and us kids had to do manual labor just so the family could get by. If you can't tell, I'm not great with manual labor. I didn't think things could get worse, but life, uh, life has a way of reminding you that's not true."

"Your father died?"

"Oh yeah. Slowly, painfully… but at least it was peaceful. The rest of my family… they, uh, they didn't have it so easy. Brigands came for the town one summer day, when most of the menfolk and their pointy, metal farm tools were away in the fields. I hid in the cellar, but they got everyone else. They left my older brother behind. Slit his throat first. I never saw my mother or sisters again. I… I can imagine why they came, but I don't want to."

"... gods."

"The other survivors told me to sod off, so I was on my own from then on. I kind of… fell into this life. You're right, Gracchus. I did have dreams, but life educated me. It taught me the only thing that matters. Survival. You have to adapt to survive."

"So you became like this out of necessity. But… you're so proud of what you do?"

"I am proud! I'm slippery. I'm good at getting out of situations. Who cares what other people think. Morality is something in fairytales. Those brigands taught me something that day. They rape, steal and kill, and what ends up happening? They end up getting all the ass and gold they can get their hands on! If you can't beat them…"

"You know many brigands are executed, right?"

"Well they're not all as slippery as I am."

"I'll give you that one."

"And about those guards, there's no morality there either. The average city guard officer is corrupt. Who decides morality? Tyrants like Commodia? Glorified thugs like Decius? Don't think too hard about life, Gracchus. It'll drive you insane." Ruger leaned back, a smile returning to his face. "Just focus on taking advantage of opportunities, day by day. Sure I have my off days, but now I never go a week without wenches, coin, and drink, and I haven't touched a pitchfork in years. My world begins and ends with me. There will always be people like Commodia and Walhart. Important people who try to change the world. You just adapt to it. You take advantage of opportunities, or you weave out of the way when they rend society to their will."

Gracchus gave a small smile as he looked over Ruger. His selfishness and wonky sense of morality were caked into the very fiber of who he was, but Gracchus had also gotten a glimpse of a more complicated man than that. "Huh, I guess you're not all bad, Ruger. There's more to you than you want people to realize."

"I don't need your pity, you worthless cripple!"

"Now there's the Ruger I'm more familiar with."

It was at that moment the two would have the pleasure of being the first in the Deliverance to encounter Codgers. The plausibly deniable state sanctioned thug now adorned part of his body with appropriated city guard armor, though he still kept his chest obnoxiously visible, and a steel sword was slung across his back. Gracchus didn't think much of him as he and another man entered the safehouse, thinking he was with Ruger, but the increasingly alarmed look on the trickster's face quickly showed otherwise. "Well, well. So this is the Deliverance, eh?" Codgers looked around. "This place is a pisshole, mate."

"What the?!" Ruger threw himself out of his chair. "How do you know that?! How did you find us?!"

"So these aren't friends of yours?" Gracchus said dryly. "You could forgive me for thinking that given the company you usually keep."

"Shut up!" Ruger stuck his finger in Codgers' face. "I don't know how you found us, but we're well within our rights to call the city guard."

"Let me spare you the trouble, mate. Oh guards! I need a bloody guard!"

The two could already tell something was up from the mocking manner of Codgers' speech, and they nervously watched as a city guard officer almost instantly stepped into the room, as if patiently waiting outside. "Is there a problem here?" She said in an annoyed tone.

"You tell me, lass. Do you see a problem?"

"No."

Ruger stuck his hands out in exasperation. "They barged in here!"

"I didn't see _anything_."

To further prove his point, Codgers slapped the woman across the face. "How 'bout now? You see anything?"

"No." The guard said, swallowing her pride. "I didn't see anything."

"Well, I guess everything's fine. That's all."

Codgers waved her away, and the guard muttered under her breath as she left. "Decius was crazy to accept this plan."

Ruger looked at the thug and sighed as a smug look spread across his face. "What do you want then?"

"Ruger!" Gracchus snapped.

"What?! They have the city guard in their pocket! Them bigger than us!" He turned back to Codgers. "How did you do that by the way? I've been trying to find a crack in Commodia's bureaucracy for years!"

Codgers ignored him. "Righto, onto our demands. See, this a real nice place you got here." Codgers placed his hands on his hips and looked around. " _Noice_."

"And?"

"It'd be a shame if something were to… happen… to it… wink, wink."

"Yeah, yeah. I know what happens next. You want a cut of the profits."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence, and Ruger waved his hands to urge him to go on. Codgers didn't seem to understand. "And?! How much?"

"Er… bloody 'ell. How did we not think of this? Err…"

Codgers turned to the other man, and he shrugged. "Forty percent?"

"Forty percent!"

"What?! That's insane for a protection racket! Is this your first day?!"

"What do you say?"

Ruger thought about it. "How did they get the damned… ugh."

Gracchus realized Ruger was about to break, and he decided he'd stand up for the Deliverance… metaphorically speaking. "No."

Codgers slowly turned to him. "You what?"

"We're _not_ paying." Gracchus tried the best he damn well could to look intimidating. "We're not a group of smugglers. We're not thugs like you. We're a movement, and we stand for something. You have no idea what you're messing with. We're not paying."

Codgers slowly smiled until a slimy grin consumed his face, as if that was exactly what he wanted to here. "Heh, heh. Righto."

The thugs stepped out of the safehouse without another word, leaving the two confused. Were it not for Ruger's similar confusion, Gracchus might have wondered it that had been some fever dream. "What was with them?"

"That was the most awkward shakedown I've ever been in." Ruger shrugged. "Eh. Not everyone's as smooth as I am." The two were stunned as someone pounded on the door. "What was that? Was that them again?"

"How should I know? They came in last time. Why would they knock?" Gracchus said, visibly worried. "Go investigate."

Ruger nervously opened the door to see what Codgers had left for them. The severed heads of ten of the literate men and women Walhart had employed as administrators were scattered across the street. Almost just as disturbing was the fact that a passing guard patrol did nothing about it. They were practically sanctioning it. Gracchus was shocked, but Ruger just looked annoyed. "I can already tell this isn't going to be fun."


	6. The Permanent Revolution

The 26th of May started as a normal day in Sakdrisi. The sun's morning light cascaded down the hills around the city as it always did, making it clear for all to see how extensively they'd been mined over the centuries. The cool air of northern Valm created a pleasant breeze, and people flooded the streets to begin their day before it got too hot. Merchants set up their stalls. People hung up their laundry. City guard patrols switched shifts. Children lucky enough to be unburdened by chores took to playing in the streets. The city was slowly waking up, and it had no reason to think anything strange would happen.

The Deliverance had other plans. Today was the date of the very first large scale protest. Over three hundred men took to the streets, marching down the city center and eventually patrolling around the city courthouse. It would mark a significant moment in the last months of the Valmese Kingdom, and years later Walhart would have the protest commemorated by the Imperial mandated holiday of Deliverance Day. Today was the day Walhart truly made a stand.

The men were non-violent, but they most assuredly weren't quiet. They intentionally marched down the most crowded areas of the city. Their shouting and chanting was impossible to ignore, and half the city guard had gathered around them by the time they reached the courthouse. Commodia herself had found a note that morning when arriving to work. It listed the Deliverance's demands clearly, though it wasn't hard to tell what they wanted from their chanting.

The Deliverance demanded the establishment of a civil militia to maintain law alongside the city guard. The people of Sakdrisi had no real control over the police, and they were seen as symbols of Commodia's rule. The Deliverance demanded a new organization with oversight from a council of elected citizens.

The Deliverance demanded the end to several taxes, such as the taxes on alcohol and imported food. They also demanded an end to some of the more esoteric taxes of the Middle Ages, such as the wedding tax, (which fathers paid to their feudal lord when their daughter was married) the labor tax, (which required peasants to spend two weeks of the year performing civil works projects for the state) and the direct land tax (which taxed serfs based on the market value of the land they worked, even though they didn't actually own this land).

The Deliverance also wanted to secure several working man's vices. They demanded an end to laws preventing public drinking. They demanded that prostitution (which, as a general rule, was shunned but legal in medieval times) not be restricted to certain areas of the city. They demanded an end to restrictions on gambling. They demanded an end to import restrictions on narcotics like opium and hashish. Walhart didn't truly care about these things, but he knew the men did, and he did want to give the people what they wanted.

Lastly, but perhaps most significantly, they attacked the very basis of the feudal system. They demanded the emancipation of serfs from their feudal lords, a direct attack on the foundations of manorialism, and further demanded that the freed serfs be able to buy land from their former lords. They demanded a universal minimum wage to be paid to all occupations. From farmers to miners, from laborers to prostitutes, from soldiers to engineers, everyone deserved a guarantee of a basic amount of money for their services. Workers had to be ensured economic stability by their employers. The Deliverance further demanded that the government force employers to provide guarantees of worker's compensation, paid time off, and objective channels for workers to go through when abused by their employers.

It was an unprecedented level of extremism. In truth, Commodia didn't even have the power to enact many of these changes, but the protestors didn't care. They wanted to put their message out there, and they wanted people to know what they stood for. They wanted protests like this to someday appear throughout the continent. Though us modern readers might take many of these things for granted, their demands were radical by medieval standards. Commodia knew full well she'd earn the ire of the entire noble court in Kremnica if her city was allowed to be a hotbed of this rebellion, and to say that she was incensed by the protest would be a severe understatement, but she didn't dare try to break it up. Making these men look more sympathetic to the masses was the worst way to handle it. All she could do was stand and glare out of her window as the protest continued. "Feudalism is utility over morality!" One of the men cried, egging the others on. "Purpose over personality! Usefulness over happiness! Feudalism is society without humanity! The lords say we have little value, but do not listen to them! Value determined by usefulness to the state is no value at all. We have value because we are alive! Because we are unique! We are not tools! We are the people, and we represent the future! The only person who can decide your worth is you! We should have the freedom to rise through strength and merit! No one can lord over us. No gods! No kingdoms! No masters!"

"NO GODS! NO KINGDOMS! NO MASTERS!"

Walhart couldn't have been happier. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to see it himself.

* * *

Walhart knew his Deliverance would soon have to be mobilized into conflict, but he didn't expect to be attacked by common thugs. He had no idea how to deal with the threat of Codgers, but he had an ally that did.

Ruger had been leading Walhart to his Sakdrisi safehouse. The trickster claimed to have spiderholes like it hidden across the Valmese continent, though he usually spent his time traveling or with his contacts. This safehouse was hidden in the basement of a rundown bar. Walhart followed Ruger down as he opened a hatch, descended a staircase to the basement door, and stepped inside a large room. He drew the levin sword he'd gotten from the weapon shipment the day Conrad and Courtney died and used a small bolt from it to light a candle, revealing the contents of the room to Walhart. "Well, here we are. Sorry about the mess." Walhart didn't know what to expect. He wouldn't have been surprised if the bar owners made Ruger deal with the supplies stored there. If Ruger was allowed most of the space, Walhart expected it to be a nightmare of filth and clutter.

But Ruger's safehouse was perfectly clean. Everything was neat and organized, and the floor had clearly been waxed and swept constantly. Even Ruger's relatively comfortable looking bed was well made. "What do you mean? Ruger, this place is spotless. I'm surprised."

"Oh. I don't know. I thought that's what you're supposed to say whenever you let someone into your home. I'm usually the one doing the visiting."

Walhart continued to stare at the room. Ruger's surprisingly well kept safehouse wasn't what surprised Walhart the most. What got him was that the room was filled with clocks, of all things. There were almost a dozen of them, and they all varied in shapes and design. To clarify, a late medieval clock was a marvel of craftsmanship and engineering. There were no factories to mass produce them, nor were there completely standardized designs. In many ways, they were like modern customized personal computers. They all ultimately served the same purpose, but their internal workings varied wildly, and their creators would find countless unique ways to put them together.

Ruger's collection depicted a number of design philosophies. The largest clock was an absolute monster of a timekeeping device. The frame stood about 1.3 meters high and was just as wide. A number of spiked wheels connected to various chains were located inside of it. This kind of clock had no face. Its escapement, the mechanism in a clock that controls its rate by allowing the gear train to advance at regular intervals, was a verge and foliot. This massive clock could strike a bell every hour, though it didn't really tell you the seconds and minutes of an hour. The room also featured several small clocks, though the smallest was still clunky by modern standards and heavy enough to require two hands. This clock in particular caught Walhart's interest, and he examined it as he spoke to Ruger. "Ruger?!"

"What do you want now?"

Walhart held up the clock. "W-why do you have so many clocks?! I never expected you of all people to have a hobby like this."

Ruger shrugged. "I don't know. I just like them."

"Where did you buy them? Wait… how did you fit the larger one through the hatch?"

Ruger's usual cocky attitude faded. He actually seemed self conscious. "Oh. I, uh… made these."

"You… actually made these yourself?!" Walhart examined the portable clock closely. Ruger's clock was a mess of complicated gears and interlocking mechanisms Walhart couldn't possibly understand, but it featured a metal frame that allowed you to easily grip it without touching any of that. This clock featured a face complete with hour and minute hands, and it was designed to ring a bell at the top every hour. Walhart noticed that, by chance, it happened to be 3 in the afternoon. Sure enough, every clock in Ruger's safehouse went off at once, proving they all functioned. The sound didn't reach the outside of the bar, keeping Ruger's safehouse hidden, but it was rather unpleasant to Walhart at ground zero. Ruger didn't seem to care, as if he'd heard it thousands of times. "Ruger… these all work. These… these are brilliant."

"... Really?"

"You're very talented." Ruger stepped forward and handed him the portable clock. "This is the work of a master craftsman."

"Huh? This piece of oaty-white horse shite? Nah." Ruger inspected his clock, entirely ignorant to its intricacy. He only seemed to see perceived flaws. "Nah, this ain't nothing. The metal was subpar. The gear teeth are weak. There's corrosion with the shifting mechanisms. The springs were weak. It's… it's just not right." Ruger looked around, an actual look of sadness on his slippery face. "None of them are right."

"What do you mean? They all function?"

"N-no. It's not enough for them to function. They have to be, I don't know, right. They're just not _right_."

"Where did you even learn to make these? Were you an apprentice?"

"No." Ruger motioned towards a bookshelf packed with various books on clockmaking, engineering, and aspects of mechanical theory. As was previously mentioned, books were much more expensive in the age before the printing press, and Ruger's bookshelf alone was worth a small fortune. Walhart was further stunned. He didn't even know Ruger could _read_. "I taught myself. That's why all these clocks come out wrong. No one ever taught me any better, okay?! I had to figure this out myself!"

"I mean no offense. Your work is very good. In fact, it's even more impressive if you really did teach yourself. That clock could probably sell for hundreds of gold at the least."

"What?! No!" Ruger furiously turned his clock around, looking over every centimeter of it. "Are you stupid?! Are you dense?! Is there a even a dick-trickle of intelligence in that skull of yours?!"

"What did you just say to me?!"

Ruger became increasingly worked up. "This is crap! Look at it! It's, it's flawed! It's not good enough! It doesn't even work!"

"It does work. It just did."

"No! It doesn't work! No one ever taught me better, okay?! I did my best!"

"It's fine, Ruger."

"No it's not! It doesn't work! It's, it's NOT RIGHT!" Ruger hurled the clock against the wall, and Walhart could hear that its internal mechanisms had shattered. Ruger stood there for a few seconds, taking short and panicked breaths. "None of them come out right."

Walhart could tell he'd stumbled on some kind of neurotic behavior, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should get back to our purpose here."

"Right… I… right." Ruger shifted through a stack of papers until he pulled out several maps of the city featuring markings that only made sense to him. Walhart looked over them as he set it on a nearby table. "From what I can tell, our new friends don't seem to have any connections to existing criminal syndicates. They really were just street thugs. I have no idea how they were able to strike a deal with the city guard."

"This isn't helping, Ruger."

"Have a little faith, Wally my boy. I finally got a guard to crack. He told me more about the men who killed the ten administrators. They're lead by some scumbag named Codgers. He apparently has a long list of minor crimes to his name, but he's nothing like yours truly. Codgers and his men hang out in a warehouse here." Ruger pointed out the location. "As far as I can tell, they have little power besides their alliance with the city guard. If we can go on the offensive, we can deal with them before this gets any worse."

Walhart seized the maps and looked them over more carefully. "Yes. We cannot allow these men to stand in the way of our goals."

Ruger paused. "And what might those goals be?"

"To bring about the rule of righteousness in the land so that the privileged do not hold back the majority, and so that those born into prominence do not hold back those with the potential to earn their place through merit."

"Your answer changes each time I ask that, you know?"

Walhart glared at him. "Surely you've been with us long enough to understand our goals, even if you're only motivated by profit?"

"I understand your shtick." Ruger looked him over. "What I'm not sure I understand is you. No man is an automaton. No man exists to endlessly follow an ideology like these clocks exist to endlessly tell time. Men are motivated by more personal things."

"Not everyone is as simple as you. This revolution means something to me."

"Exactly. I'm a simple man. All I want in the end is a woman in one arm, and a pint in the other. Those are primal wants, Walhart, and they're in the hearts of all men. People may genuinely believe in ideology and rhetoric, but we all have those wants inside. Some men only care about the simple pleasures, and others combine the two, but no man only cares about your so called righteousness. There's a little bit of Ruger in everyone."

"Gross. Absolutely disgusting. Do you have a point to this, little man?"

Ruger scowled. "I don't believe you only care about the Deliverance. Maybe you always were a thinker, but something 'simple', something _primal_ , made you snap. Made you change your mind on killing. I mean, you wouldn't kill anyone when we were taking over the prison ship. Not even the guards that came running at you with weapons drawn. Now you're fantasizing about wiping out these street thugs, all in the name of 'the greater good'. Men don't change like that for no reason. Everything you've built, everything you've become, it all goes back to one thing. Hmm, now what changed in your life since you first met me? What changed?" Ruger mockingly pretended to be deep in thought. "What… changed? Was it… something… no, someone, with white blonde hair? Light brown eyes? Someone of the… less manual labor inclined sex? Someone of surprisingly high birth to be married to someone like you?"

Walhart's face contorted with frustration he was less and less capable of holding back. "Is that what this is? You claim I'm doing this, all of this, because of Hildegard?! Because of her death?!"

"You were so stuck up when I met you. 'Wah, I don't want to kill the guards. I don't want to dump them in the sea. I don't want to be a gladiator. I won't be a criminal like you.' You stuck your chin up at me. You still do, perhaps forgetting everything I've done for your army, but now you so readily turn to violence. Maybe you still have this naive little belief that you can rally the people, but you've discovered the power you had inside of you." Walhart remembered when Gracchus had said something similar, and Ruger gave a slimy grin. "And that's the thing about power, isn't it? Once you've got it, you don't want to give it up. Ever."

"What is the point of all this?!"

"Just trying to figure you out. Is it that simple? Did the passionate but naive firebrand become the Deliverance leader just because his wife was taken from him? What do you think?"

A strange realization came to Walhart. Ruger was right about one thing, at least. He had been rather dismissive towards the trickster ever since they'd met, and even now he was being rather abrasive towards an ally he still needed. Was it simply because he couldn't bring Ruger under his thumb completely? Was power corrupting him even as he preached for a more equal and fair society? Walhart too realized he wanted to know why he was changing, and he put aside his anger to give Ruger's question serious thought. He lost track of time, and Ruger looked at him as if he thought the question had broken him. "Uh, you still there, big guy?"

"Ruger… you're not wrong. Hildegard… I miss her so much."

"You're not going to cry, are you?"

Walhart straightened himself as gathered his thoughts. "But understand this. I'm not lashing out at her loss. No. Her death… completed me. My relationship with her… it made me who I am. She was the smith, and I was the weapon."

"... Oookay?"

"I still remember the day I met her. I was only sixteen years old. She was a little older, but not much." Walhart looked down to his own hands. They were coarse and calloused from over a decade of difficult manual labor, and scars from different years layered like the rings in a tree covered the skin. His very body betrayed his status in society. "Even back then I was a laborer, but I worked in a copper mine about twenty kilometers from here. There was a small trading center nearby. It would attract merchants seeking to do business in the area, and they would bring their daughters with them. Sometimes I could afford go to the settlement and purchase goods with the pittance of gold I was paid, and I'd see those women."

Ruger was listening, but he couldn't tell where Walhart was going with this. "Pretty?"

"Unimaginably so, but I learned very quickly not to look at them. I was nothing to them. Their very forms put me in my place. Their nails were long and delicate, a fashion trait of the aristocracy that proves an individual doesn't have to lower themselves with manual labor. Their hair was long and pampered, while mine had to be cut or tied back. Their clothing was intricate and elaborate, designed to impress each other more than anything else. Everything about them was a reminder of their place in society, and how it was far above mine. Those women would go out of their way to never meet my eyes, but I tried not to look back anyways. I was afraid to do so. I feared the contempt I would undoubtedly find in their piercing stares. They—no, not just they—all society told me I was nothing… and I believed it. Then I met _her_. When I first saw Hildegard… I couldn't breathe. She immediately seized my gaze. Held sway over the sanctity of my mind. I remember… hating her. I projected my insecurities onto her. I told myself she was probably the most stuck up of all. That she only cared about money. My own inadequacies were at war with my heart. Then… she did something none of the others had ever done. Something that made me sure I had to talk to her."

"What?"

"She looked _back_ at me… and she smiled."

Ruger thought about the story himself. "You told me her father eventually went out of business, but she could still have done better than you. You know I'm right. What the hell did she see in you? I mean, damn, I'd like to marry a pretty little thing of the petite bourgeoisie. Peasant women are… well they're just grimy."

Walhart didn't respond with anger. Ruger's question was something he'd thought about for almost ten years of marriage. "I… don't know. I was so consumed by an inferiority complex beaten into me by my childhood that I could barely believe she'd ever talk to me, but she did. I know why she was with me now, but only because she had to tell me time and time again."

"Well? Why?"

"Because she _loved_ me. She'd tell me that over and over, but I never understood why she felt that way. I don't know what she saw in me. I know she loved me. I just don't _understand_ it. Now she's gone… and I still don't have the why of it all." Walhart looked over his own hands. "I won't repeat that mistake. The why of it all must be understood. I must understand why I killed one of Commodia's men that day. Why I slew the Royal Scouts. Why we installed cells in Sakdrisi. It's all to create a better world. I cannot be weakened by insecurities now. Hildegard's death was the worst day of my life, but it didn't break me. It _liberated_ me. You see, Hildegard kept me restrained in a way. I had to put food on our table, especially with her family ruined. I had to take care of her mother. I had to make payments on our house. I had to keep a job. Hildegard forced me to stay a part of society. When she died, I was free to devote myself to a higher purpose. Perhaps a personal tragedy made me like this, Ruger, but I am not driven by primal desires. I never had parents. There will be no more wives. There will be no children, and there will be no grandchildren. I have given up the _primal_ aspects of my humanity to pursue a greater calling. I will create a better world, for all of us, by any means necessary."

Walhart couldn't really tell if Ruger genuinely wanted to understand him, or if he was trying to get a rise out of him. Either way, Ruger seemed genuinely impressed by the answer he'd gotten. "You're an interesting guy."

"You're not as shallow as you think you are, Ruger. There's more to you than a desire for money. I mean, just look at this hobby of yours. There could be a permanent place for you in the revolution."

Ruger became self conscious again. "I don't want to talk about the clocks anymore! Now, here's some more information on the building Codgers is in." Ruger pulled out more maps, but he didn't hand them to Walhart. "Layouts of the building. Maps of the area. Schedules of Codgers and his men. You want it? It's yours, my friend, as long as you have enough gold."

Walhart scowled. "I don't have anything on me right now."

"Sorry, Walhart. I can't give credit. Come back when you're a little, mmm, richer."

"You're impossible."

* * *

Unhappy as he was about it, Walhart eventually came back and paid Ruger's fee. Codgers' alliance with the city guard made any kind of strike at his headquarters suicide if city guard patrols were around, and Walhart needed Ruger's help to find a perfect time to strike. Ruger spent the next few days observing Codgers' movement and the schedules of the guards, and he reported what he saw to Walhart (charging a separate fee each time). The Deliverance Leader eventually began to formulate a plan, but it was still a significant risk. In the meantime, the trickster continued his usual work of supplying the various Deliverance cells throughout the city.

The safehouse Ruger supplied now was also home to Gracchus, and it'd increasingly become his permanent home. The former miner's health, which had previously seemed to stabilize, had taken a turn for the worse. What initially appeared to be a common flu now ravaged Gracchus, and his coughing had returned. Walhart no longer allowed Gracchus to be moved, and he also insisted on helping him—uncaring that this delayed his actions against Codgers. Ruger hadn't actually just arrived at the safehouse. He couldn't stand being around Gracchus when Walhart was visiting him. It was like a parent caring for a young child, or on the extreme other end of the spectrum, a nurse caring for a senile elderly patient. Gracchus wasn't close to either of those things mentally, but his impairment had robbed him of his independence. Of his very adulthood. It was a depressing sight, and Ruger waited until he was sure Walhart was gone to go inside.

"*coughing* Naga's scaly rear end, Walhart!" Gracchus stated as Ruger opened the door. "I—*cough*—told you I'm—*cough*—fine. I don't need anything else. I'm—*coughing*"

"Yeesh. Someone put me out of my misery if I ever end up like that." Ruger muttered under his breath as he stepped into view. "Slow down there, drags-a-along. I'm not Walhart."

"Ruger." Gracchus responded weakly as he fell back into his pillow. He was so weak he couldn't even be in a chair anymore. "You're here for the supplies?"

"Yeah. I'll just set them over there." Ruger callously hurled a heavy crate towards the general direction of a closet, and some of the food spilled out. "I'm sure Walhart will come and pick that up."

"Ch—*cough*—charming as ever, trickster. So—*pained breathing*—how goes t-the… the fight against Codgers."

"It's a lot like the revolution Walhart is working towards."

"How so?"

"Nothing is actually happening. I can't help but feel it's because Walhart is stuck both figuratively and literally dragging your sorry arse around."

"Oh come on, Ruger. Picking on a—*cough*—man too sick to make comebacks? That's a new low."

"You may be Sakdrisi's resident sad sack, but surely you've got something."

"... Well, I can say I'm genuinely impressed with you."

"Huh?"

"Figuratively and literally are big words for a little man like you." Gracchus gave a patronizing clap. "Good job."

Ruger gave a brief exhale of air, the smallest sign that Gracchus had grown on him. "Well look at that. You can still use that mouth of yours. That's good. We're not _completely_ wasting our time feeding it." Gracchus looked like he was going to respond again, but his coughing returned worse than ever, and it didn't end until Gracchus was crying. It was everything he had just to shift over to the side of the bed and vomit into a bucket placed against the wall. "Uh… you okay?"

Gracchus sank back into the pillow again, vomit dripping down from his mouth. "Do I look okay? Duma take me. This is no way to live." Gracchus looked sorrowfully at Ruger, and the trickster saw genuine fear in his eyes. "I'm not in denial, Ruger. I know full well what everyone else knows."

"What?"

"That I'm not going to get better. I'm going to die in this city. It's fitting, I guess. After all, my legs are already buried in a landfill somewhere around here."

Some small, actually civil part of Ruger wanted to reassure him, but he knew full well he wasn't wrong. "Walhart would miss you if you went. You're about the only thing he has besides Farber the Fairy."

"Even your attempts at compassion are imbued with insults. Don't ever change, Ruger." Gracchus replied sarcastically. "I know what I mean to Walhart. I also know I'm the only person that ever—*cough*—that ever—*bigger cough*—that ever—*worst cough yet*—damn this cough. That ever _criticizes_ him. You. Farber. Nelson, whatever it is he really wants. No one ever disagrees with him. He's a good man, but I fear what he's becoming. What the Deliverance is becoming. I don't want him to lose sight of his goals. He needs someone to keep him grounded."

Ruger responded with sarcasm of his own. "Stop, Gracchus. You're too humble."

"I'm serious. His cause is just, but I don't want him to turn to violence. I don't want the working people to suffer in a violent revolution. The common man is always the true victim of war." Gracchus stared into space. "At the same time, we have to fight back. The feudalists will use force to keep us in line. We have to put pressure on them. There can be no compromise. The aristocracy will never allow us to express our interests. Walhart must pursue the interests of the working class even in the face of a majority that seeks to repress us. At the same time, he cannot go too far. He can't allow radicalized followers to bring suffering to the people. He can't lose sight of his goals. It's a fine line a leader has too walk, and Walhart needs support. He said it himself. A leader needs someone who makes them think clearly about their views and why they hold them." Gracchus desperately suppressed the urge to cough. "But it can't be me. I can't live like a child anymore. He needs… a tactician. He needs officers. He needs the Deliverance to be more than just uneducated male laborers. We need to represent society as a whole without allowing compromise to undermine our position."

"I don't get it. You want him to be a little off the arse crazy, and you don't want him to go too far?"

"Ideology can be black and white, but praxis usually isn't. We have to make moral sacrifices for the greater good, but we have also have to know when we're going too far."

"And what does the goody two shoes former merchant know about a morally gray world?"

"I am not Walhart. I was never strong enough." Gracchus looked into Ruger's eyes, and a brief flicker of determination radiated through the dying form that sustained the former miner. "But I spent my time fighting for the working class too. I did it as a bourgeoisie merchant back then."

"So it's fitting that you ended up a simple miner."

"It wasn't poetic fate. I ruined my family's business. I just wanted to use my wealth to help society, but I wasn't strong enough to keep it. I _compromised_ , and that weakened me."

"What do you mean?"

Gracchus sank into his pillow and looked away, as if ashamed. "My family had ties to smugglers. My parents were relatively wealthy. They made that fortune importing goods from other kingdoms; Tarsque, Chon'sin, Veslil, and even far away Plegia. The smugglers allowed them to avoid paying protectionist tariffs on the goods, and the lower costs of obtaining them allowed my parents to undercut other merchants. Our enterprise depended on crime. My parents didn't hide it from me either. They told me the truth when I was a teenager, and they spent the next few years grooming me to take over." Gracchus coughed for several seconds, but he was silent even after that. Perhaps he was gathering his thoughts, or perhaps he was moved by the memories. "You know how teenagers are. Bold. Immediately dismissive of their parent's views. Motivated by ideology and not practicality. Wanting the world to be different and refusing to accept that things are the way they are for a reason. I was a little bit of a radical, heh. I looked down on my parents for caring about money for its own sake. I was going to use our fortune to help the people."

"Heh, that didn't work out so well, did it?"

"I underestimated the smugglers. I thought they'd always be there, working for me. I didn't realize they were actors with goals of their own. They didn't exist just to do my family's bidding. You know how teenagers are. Never thinking things through as much as they should. One winter, a bad sickness swept through my city. We all fell ill, but I was young then, and I quickly recovered. My parents were sicker, but I wasn't afraid. We could afford medicine. In my arrogance, I was excited. I could effectively run the business for a month or two. I started using our profits to help the less fortunate. Gods I thought myself selfless. Of course, I didn't want to sacrifice my lifestyle. I didn't want less money to come to our family. I simply took it from the cut the smugglers got."

"Uh oh."

"They weren't happy, and there were arguments. They'd call me a child, and it got to me. I didn't want to ruin what my parents had built, so I renegotiated our deal. Rather than simply paying them a cut, I gave them direct control of many of the mechanisms behind our business. It wasn't my family's business anymore. I compromised."

"And they did you dirty?"

"They figured out how to legally take more than I thought I'd given them, and I protested. They responded by… by… gods… by refusing to import our medicine anymore. I couldn't buy it locally." Gracchus' lip quivered. "Without it, my aging parents couldn't fight off the sickness anymore, and… I was left alone. I tried getting back at them, but they didn't take that well either. They found a way to tip off the police to my family's less than legal activities. What remained of our fortune was simply seized by the Magistrate, and I was imprisoned for five years. The only reason it wasn't twenty was because the judge had been a friend of my father's, and he took pity on me. I tried to be a man of the people, but in the end I was still taking advantage of privileges from my wealthy upbringing. When I got out, I had nothing, and the working men I thought myself a champion of couldn't care less about me. I realized how smug and arrogant I'd been." Gracchus looked back to Ruger. "So I know that you have sometimes gave to work with unscrupulous people. I know you sometimes have to make moral sacrifices, but I know when you can't go too far. I know when you can't compromise. Walhart has a chance to actually make a better society for the working class. I just want to help. I just want to do something with my wasted life. I just want to make sure no man ever loses his legs just because a foreman doesn't want to lose a few minutes of productivity ever again. The rich will always exploit the commoners if they aren't made to change. They do it without even realizing it. I know, because I was like that. Still, Walhart needs people to guide him. To criticize him. To prevent this Deliverance from going out of control. You know what they say. Those who play with the Shadow Dragon's toys, will be brought by degrees to wield his sword."

Ruger thought he heard shifting noises outside, but he was too focused on his own thoughts to care. "Gracchus… I am worried about what Walhart is becoming. I'm pretty good at knowing when something is about to go down, and I can tell a storm is brewing. He's created a lot of opportunities for me, but I'm not really part of this movement."

"And you fear that it might not be safe for you to stay?"

"It'll be a matter of 'us and them', and I won't be with the 'us'. I don't think there will be a place for me here."

"But there could be. You don't have to be here as a criminal. You could stand with us as a brother." Gracchus gave an understanding look Ruger had never seen before, and the trickster's usual attitude of jovial bullying and deflections briefly disappeared. "Look at me, Ruger. I have nothing left anymore. Never married. Parents are gone. I have no money. None of the simple pleasures you enjoy. I'm left with nothing more than a broken down form, but I still find meaning in life by working towards a greater future for everyone. I just want to ensure no one else has to suffer like I did. You don't have to spend your life wandering around in an endless pursuit of superficial things. You could still be part of something greater. You could still make a mark on history."

"Gracchus…"

"There's more to you than you want people to think, Ruger."

"You're wrong about me. I've… I've been doing this for too long."

"Am I?"

"I…" The noises outside grew louder, and Ruger was happy for the excuse to get up. "Hold on. I'd better check that out."

Ruger stepped into the safehouse kitchen and stretched his little legs to peer out of a small window at ground level. He barely had time to see the feet of several men shifting around outside before an object shattered said window, sending shards of glass flying just centimeters away from his face. Ruger ducked under it just in time to see a jury rigged incendiary device rupture, and burning oil rapidly radiated out from the point of impact and consumed much of the kitchen. In one of the few times his diminutive body worked in his favor, Ruger managed to dart over the flames as they spread, but the heat still made him scurry out of the kitchen as quickly as he could. He returned to the main room to find another incendiary device being thrown through the other window. Gracchus brought himself up and looked around in confusion, and he turned to Ruger as his true helplessness dawned on him. "Gods above! Get us out!" Ruger didn't move, and the former miner's alarm turned to dread. "Ruger, you… are going to help me… r-right? R-Ruger?!"

The trickster looked back to the flames and saw that they'd soon cut him off from the door. He sized up Gracchus. Thought about how difficult it'd be to move him. "Gracchus…" He spoke slowly, not hiding how cold his words would be. "I'm not sure I can move you."

"You're going to leave me here?!" Gracchus started to panic as the heat grew more intense, but he forced himself to speak calmly. "Ruger… don't do this. You can't really just leave me here. You're a better man than that. I know you are."

Ruger looked away in guilt. Gracchus' voice wasn't desperate or accusatory. He only tried to appeal to Ruger as a friend, and it only made him feel worse. There was a growing part of Ruger that couldn't bare to leave.

But that small aspect of his humanity just wasn't nurtured enough. Ruger's selfishness was too ingrained. "I'm… sorry, Gracchus. You were wrong about me."

"It doesn't have to be that way." Gracchus couldn't suppress the panic anymore. "You can be better. P-please."

"I told you before. When everyone lines up to make sacrifices… get in the back of the queue."

"Wait!" Ruger kept his head down and sprinted for the door. He tried to block out Gracchus as he ran, but he still heard him make one final cry. "I can't deserve this!"

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it." Ruger muttered to himself as he disappeared into the street.

Sure enough, the flames had enveloped the door within less than a minute, and Gracchus could feel the heat getting worse and worse. He started to hyperventilate as he lied back into his pillow, unable to do much else. "Gods. Oh gods… not… not like this."

* * *

Walhart made his way to the compromised safehouse the moment Ruger told him what happened. Smoke was still rising from the building, and the city guard hadn't arrived to investigate yet, but the fires themselves had died down. The Deliverance safehouse had been on the bottom floor and was largely built into a basement. The fire had since spread to the other floors of the building, causing them to eventually collapse and bury the basement in rubble. Mercifully, the other building tenants had managed to leave first, and many still crowded around the remains. They gave Walhart a small amount of hope, and the towering treatise author desperately began combing the rubble. Perhaps out of guilt, Ruger had tagged along, and it wasn't hard for him to figure out why Walhart was so furiously searching. "Walhart… he's gone. There's no saving him."

"You don't know that!" Walhart roared as he furiously flung rubble out of the way.

"He was in the basement. I don't see how he could have gotten out!"

"But you only saw the fire from a distance!"

Ruger rubbed the back of his head nervously. "Yeah."

"You don't know that he's gone! I can't leave him!"

A middle aged woman approached Walhart. The fury he displayed in throwing the debris aside seemed to scare her, but she eventually managed to speak. "Uh, Hallmark? Was that your name?"

He turned. "It's Walhart."

"Sorry." The woman slowly pointed towards an alley, her finger trembling. "You said you were looking for a man with no legs. You… might want to check over there."

Walhart's eyes lit up. "Thank you. Thank you!"

The woman shook her head. "Be warned, hon. He's… not well."

Walhart threw himself into the alley as quickly as he could, but he froze in place at the sight that awaited him. The horror he felt was like nothing he'd experienced since Hildegard died, and that should be enough to understand what he saw.

Broken as he was, Gracchus was just damned tough. He'd tried to save himself from burning alive, and his deteriorating body actually managed to get him out of the building, but it wasn't a pretty sight. He was badly burned, and his hair was gone. Gracchus' breathing was pained and desperate, as if he struggled for every breath, and Walhart quickly turned him over. Having crawled through the burning oil, Gracchus' abdomen was… it just wasn't there, and he barely had a face anymore. He was skeletal in places, and he was naked now—not in the sense that his clothing had disappeared, but because what remained of it had effectively fused with his skin. Gracchus was clinging to life, but he was very much still alive, and he managed to bring his eyes to Walhart. He'd have broken down crying if his tear ducts still worked. "You. You… came back. You actually came back for… me?"

Walhart had seen a great deal of violence by this point, but even he had to collect himself. "Oh my gods. Gracchus… I can't…"

"You actually came back. I can't believe… you came back for me." Gracchus looked to Ruger as he slowly stepped into view, and he managed to glare at him. "Ruger… you've returned. I can't believe you can even look at me."

Ruger barely could, and his eyes fell to his feet. He knew full well what he did, and he could do nothing but slowly step away and wait for Walhart. The Deliverance leader took his friend's hand and tightly gripped it. "Just stay calm, Gracchus. Save your breath. I'll get you out of this."

Gracchus actually managed a small laugh. "Please. You know I'm not going to make it."

"No. No! I can save you!"

"I've been dying for a very long time. I'm not coming back from this."

"We can get you to a healer!"

"Walhart!" Gracchus snapped, using the last of his strength to manage a yell. "I don't want to live like this. Besides, you said it yourself once. Before you even wrote _Peace In Our Tim_ e. Manual laborers are just one injury away from redundancy."

"And redundancy is a step away from death."

"I've been dead since the day I lost my legs. Walhart… can you do something for me?"

"Anything!"

Gracchus placed his hand on Walhart's shoulder, and he took it in his own. "Keep fighting! Make a world where no man has to suffer like I did. Make a world where people aren't thought of as resources. Where the value of a man's life isn't determined by the profit they generate or output—their usefulness to the aristocracy. Make a world where people can decide their own destinies."

"Gracchus?" Walhart thought about his words. "You warned me about going too far."

"I don't want you to lose sight of our goals. I don't want the working men to suffer in our revolution. Still, you have to keep fighting. Don't back down. Life shouldn't be about working for the benefit of the rich. Life should be about… doing what you want to do, regardless of what you were _born_ to do, or what you were _expected_ to do, or what society _tells_ you to do. No one should be able to decide how a man lives his life. The ones in power don't want an empowered citizenry, so they use their strength to repress us. In the end, it is the strong that shape history. Marth, Alm, Celica, the First Exalt…"

"They changed the world through strength."

"Yes, so you have to be strong. I wish writing was enough, but it's not, and it never will be. If words can't change society, you have to force the issue." Gracchus grabbed Walhart's collar. "Don't compromise! When you compromise with the enemy, you let their interests subvert your own, and it undermines your position. Never back down!"

"You're focusing so much on the individual. Only the collective will of the people can change society."

"But the people want to be lead, Walhart. They need a figurehead. Someone to give their views a face." Saying all that had taken a lot out of Gracchus, and he sank against the ground. "So lead them."

"Gracchus… just… just hold still. I can get you out of here."

He shook his head. Gracchus was built too tough to die now, but he knew full well he'd be in even more agony if he somehow made it in the end. "Walhart… can you do something else for me?"

"What?"

"I'm… I'm not going to go quickly."

Walhart's eyes widened as he realized what he was saying. "N-no. You can't ask me to do that!"

"Please. Don't let me suffer anymore."

Walhart trembled in place, but he eventually complied. He unceremoniously snapped Gracchus' neck, ending his suffering. After that he just sat there, as if driven by an executable file that had stopped working. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn't really cry. He didn't even make any noise. He was just… there, and it started to creep Ruger out. "Uh… Walhart?" He wasn't sure what to do. He thought about putting his hand on Walhart's shoulder, but decided against it. "Walhart?"

"Gracchus." He whispered.

"What?"

He threw himself to his feet. " _ **GRAAAAACCHUUUUUAAAAAAGGGHH**_!"

* * *

Walhart didn't say anything to Ruger for some time. Not when he cradled Gracchus's body and carried it out of the city. Not when they walked all the way to the hill where Hildegard and Gloria had been buried. Not even when Walhart spent about half an hour digging a grave deep enough. Walhart buried Gracchus by his wife and mother-in-law, then stood in silence for a few minutes. It was only then that he finally turned to Ruger and spoke to him. "Ruger?"

Ruger had probably tagged along out of guilt, as if he thought being with Walhart the entire time would make him less likely to snap. The trickster was consumed by guilt for his actions, but also fear that Walhart would figure out what happened, and Walhart could see it. "Uh, yeah? Need something, big guy?"

"You told me you saw the fire from a distance."

"Y-yeah. That's right."

"Gracchus said you'd returned. Were you there before the fire? Were you there when it happened?"

"Well… uh-"

His hesitation was all the confirmation Walhart needed. He backhanded him, sending Ruger crumpling to the ground. "You left him to die in that fire!"

"W-wait! It's not my fault! I couldn't lift him!"

"Did you even try?!"

"The fire would have blocked the door!"

"You mewling worm! You only care about yourself! Men like you are why the world is the way it is! I could kill you, and no one would care!"

"Stop! Please!"

"You're begging for your life?! Tell me! Did Gracchus beg?! Did you listen when he begged?!"

Ruger was desperate now, and he noticed Hildegard's grave as he tried to crawl away. "Wait! What if your wife could see you now? Is this what she would have wanted?!" Walhart lost it, and he proceeded to beat Ruger within a centimeter of his life. He was a squirming, bloody, almost pulpy mess when Walhart was done. "P-ple-hease! Stop! I didn't kill him! Those men did! Those thugs! You should be mad at them! YOU STILL NEED ME!"

Walhart grabbed him by the throat. "No more games. I don't care how risky an attack would be. You're going to lead me to Codgers, and I'm going to put an end to this!"

"Y-yeah! Yeah, sure! Uh… all hail Walhart!" Walhart threw him down, but he didn't leave immediately. He slowly walked over to Hildegard's grave and pawed through the dirt until he found the wedding ring he'd buried months ago. "What are you doing?" Ruger asked, very nervously.

"I buried this ring to symbolize the end of my old life. Now I'll sell it and use the money to help fund the Deliverance. I am fully dedicated to this fight." Walhart clutched the ring in his hand. "And there will be no compromises, Gracchus."

* * *

Codgers had been hanging out by his personal headquarters with the lads for about an hour now. The building had been given to him as part of the deal with Decius. It was actually just one of the many freebies he'd gotten. All he had to do in return was attack Deliverance cells Zarqawi provided the locations of until they struck back, at which point the thugs were expected to kill them. The Deliverance would be gone, and Commodia would keep her hands clean. Codgers was genuinely surprised how passive they seemed to be. Surely killing ten of Walhart's followers would lure him out, but nothing happened. Of course, Codgers surely figured he wouldn't ignore the attack earlier today.

"Ah, nothing like having the arvo to yourself." Codgers said to no one in particular as he took a sip from a mug of ale. One of his men shrugged.

"I'm kind of bored, actually. I thought something would have happened by now."

"You're bored?" Codgers threw the mug at him. "Me ale is warm. Get me a cold one. That'll give you something to do." Codgers and the men next to him all perked up as a young woman walked by. The others were about to holler at her, but Codgers gestured for them to shut up. "Hold on! Hold on, lads!"

"What?"

"We're always whistling at the girls that walk by, but it never works. I've been reading up on how to be a gentleman. I'm going to go introduce myself the proper way. Don't ruin this for me."

"You? A gentleman?"

"Really! I've been studying! Watch and learn." Codgers caught up to the young woman and cleared his throat to get her attention. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but notice you, lass. My name's Codgers."

"Um… hello?"

"So, err…" Codgers flashed a cheesy grin. "Fancy a shag?"

"Get lost!"

Codgers turned back to the other men to find them snickering at him. "Bollocks. I don't see what I did wrong."

"So what now, knobhead?"

"Aw, hell. Let's just go down to the red light district and pick up some slags."

The men appeared to like that idea, so no one was pleased when yet another of the thugs came running out of the warehouse in a panic. "Codgers! Where the bloody hell is Codgers?!"

"What, you cheeky little prick?!"

"Oi! Get in here, mate! We got a problem!"

" _Oi_ , don't tell me what to do, ya bloody little nancy boy! I'm the boss! Talk to me that way again and me and the lads will fockin' wreck you harder than Duma did to the birds who's came his witches in the legends, I swear on me nan!"

"Just bloody get over here!"

The man disappeared inside the door, and Codgers sighed as he turned to one of his companions. "Ah. Being the boss isn't all fun and games innit?"

"I don't fockin' know."

"Get stuffed!"

Codgers had four men already in the warehouse when he and five others walked in. The men inside had drawn their weapons, and Codgers took notice. "Now what was so important?"

"It's 'im!" One of the thugs shouted as he pointed towards the main entrance. "He finally came."

A man, just _one_ man, had barged into the warehouse, and he stood a few meters away from the thugs, sizing them up. He was an absolute unit of a man, with flowing jet black hair and eyes of endless white. There was no mistaking it. This was the man Zarqawi had warned him about. Codgers could tell the others were intimidated, so he stepped forward and laughed. The other men eventually joined in. "Well, well. You finally came. Where's the rest of your chav crew? Did you really come here by yourself?" Codgers held his arms out to egg his men on. "You've got no chance against all of us! We'd put you in the ground with your dead wife, innit tho!"

The other thugs also taunted Walhart, but they stopped as he stepped forward. "You have no idea what you've started."

Codgers scowled. "Oi, you lout! I'll bash you in the sniffer! Now why'd you come here by yourself? You want to rethink our offer on the protection money?" His expression twisted into a slimy grin. "No hard feelings, mate. We'll talk about it over cheap booze and cheaper slags. Just leave your weapons by the door."

"No." Walhart casually drew a short sword. His voice was completely, disturbingly calm. It was like he was simply preparing to butcher an animal. "I'm just here to kill you people."

Codgers drew his own steel sword. "U wot?"

* * *

"AAAGH! Fook-in 'ell!" Codgers had just taken a slash to the chest, and he furiously crawled backwards as he fell to his back. "You're insane!"

Walhart was coated, absolutely drenched in the blood of all the other men, and their corpses were strewn around the warehouse. He'd saved Codgers for last, and he readied his short sword as he stood over him.

"You pathetic sacks of trash! We were trying to build something! Something that mattered!" Walhart stepped on his groin. "And you took what little I had left from me! For what?! Do you even know?!"

"PISS OFF! I have powerful friends! You'll pay for this!"

Walhart responded by grabbing Codgers' left leg, ignoring his furious attempts to get free, and hacking away with his short sword until the foot came off. He then hurled it at Codgers' face, and this sent him into a primal state of panic. Perhaps this last act of brutality had been too much for Walhart, and tears ran down his face as his voice choked. "Tell your other mouth breathing friends what happened here. You people killed a good man. Took him from the world. He's never coming back… and nothing I do will ever bring him back." Walhart kicked Codgers in the face with enough force to knock him out, though he was still alive. "Damn you all." Walhart started to walk back out of the warehouse, but he stopped in front of the door and began shivering involuntarily. He wasn't okay with everything he'd just done, and he knew Gracchus wouldn't have been either if he'd seen it. In that moment, he hated himself.

That passionate firebrand well and truly was gone.

But in time, Walhart did collect his thoughts, and he did will himself to walk out the door and return to the Deliverance. He'd made it down the street before he was set upon by the city guard.

This had been no passing guard patrol. Decius himself lead two dozen heavily armed guards in beating Walhart into submission. They'd materialized out of nowhere and savaged him with blunt clubs until he couldn't stand anymore. Four men then held him down and put him in handcuffs, and Decius himself lorded over Walhart as they forced his head back up. Walhart could tell from his smug expression that he'd played right into Decius' hands. Commodia had been far more active in trying to get rid of him than he'd thought.

"Walmart, you are under arrest for murder. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Walhart insisted on one last act of defiance. "Walhart. My name is _Walhart_."

"Your name doesn't matter. What matters is what you've done in the past." Decius got very close to him. "And I know exactly what you've done. You may have escaped the prison ship, but you won't get away this time. This is your last day as a free man."

* * *

Commodia hadn't been entirely truthful with Codgers. She never expected him to actually kill Walhart. Her plan was far more devious. Zarqawi had been tracking the activities of the underground gladiators in Kronshtadt, and she's gotten pretty good at finding their safe houses and front businesses. The only thing that stopped her from striking was the city's Magistrate. With Commodia's resources, Zarqawi was able to track down a number of Deliverance safehouse, and she passed this information on to Codgers. Codgers had been instructed to contact the Deliverance, make unreasonable demands, then use their refusal as a justification for attacking. Knowing what kind of man Walhart was, Commodia then had Decius monitor Codgers' safehouse so that they could get Walhart for murder as soon as he retaliated. Commodia would be able to silence him without turning him into a martyr. Who would sympathize with a murderer? Ruger had almost seen through the plan. He knew there were an abnormal number of guard patrols around the safehouse, but Walhart couldn't wait anymore after Gracchus' death. Commodia's plan had worked perfectly, and she brought Walhart to trial as quickly as possible.

The actions of the Deliverance had become well known throughout Sakdrisi, and Walhart's trial quickly became the defining event of the city. People endeavored to hear everything they could about it, and rumors abounded. Even our modern society has problems with rumors spreading rapidly, and it was a lot worse in the Middle Ages. Ideas on why Walhart had been arrested ranged from him planning a full scale attack to him simply throwing a rock at Commodia, and opinions on his guilt varied wildly.

Commodia herself presided over the trial, and she and Walhart locked eyes day after day as the trial dragged on. Commodia did everything she could to slander him. She accused him of murder, but she also accused him of anything she thought would stick. She insisted the Deliverance had been involved with trafficking of narcotics, weapons, and slaves. She claimed that most members were foreign mercenaries Walhart had hired. She claimed he'd killed hundreds in Kronshtadt, and Zarqawi and a recently recovered Codgers came forth as "witnesses". There was no level she wouldn't stoop to. She went as far as to claim that Walhart was never married to Hildegard, and that he'd been repeatedly raping her. She even hired people to start a rumor that he was an Ylissean agent trying to spread the Exalt's crusade in Valm. Commodia wanted to further harm his reputation, but what she really wanted was for Walhart to snap at her. To make him less sympathetic. He didn't take the bait. Walhart was calm throughout the trial, and he spoke only when he had to. He spent most of the time glaring at the Magistrate, and Commodia found it increasingly difficult to look back.

Walhart's Deliverance was infuriated by the trial. They held protests everyday outside of the courthouse, and they did a lot to combat the rumors Commodia tried to spread. They had enough sense not to clash with the city guard, but standoffs were common, and the people Commodia hired regularly turned up beaten. They dominated discussion of the trial at bars and other meeting places, and they often intimidated anyone who thought anything besides Walhart being an innocent man framed by Commodia.

Decius eventually had to warn Commodia of the threat the Deliverance posed, and Commodia finally dropped most of the charges. Still, there was more than enough evidence to convict him for murder. For killing nine men and injuring Codgers, Walhart was sentenced to life in prison.

Half the city guard was made to escort Walhart out of the courthouse. Hundreds of the Deliverance were there, screaming and protesting, but the average citizen had no sympathy. They saw him as a murderer, and they weren't wrong. Walhart was lead towards a carriage, and from there he would be taken out of the city forever.

And because Commodia was just that spiteful a person, one of the guards had been instructed to throw a rock at him as he was getting into the carriage.

* * *

And so Walhart was imprisoned for his crimes, and he never rose to power. The Kingdom of Valm remained, and years later Chrom and the Shepherds would find a continent full of agrarian aristocratic societies. Virion and Cherche never had to flee for their lives, Say'ri and Yen'fay lived happily, and all of Walhart's future generals lived peaceful, boring lives.

Or maybe all of that would have happened if there weren't other factors at play.

Within his personal office, Quaestor Excellus read over information pertaining to the trial. He raised his hand by his face and struck his trademark pose as he gave a twisted smile. "Oh no. This won't do at all. I have plans for you, Walhart. It's far too early for you to be taken out of the game."


	7. The Perestroika

"Did you have fun, Walhart?"

Walhart was inexplicably sixteen again, and he was walking down the streets of Sakdrisi with an eighteen year old Hildegard. Though the slums and dilapidated mining areas around Sakdrisi were dirty and rundown, the city center was reasonably well maintained. Street vendors sold snacks and desserts, and the buildings here were visually pleasing marvels of architecture. The city courthouse was visible in the distance, and an older Walhart might say that it ominously looked over everything else, but sixteen year old Walhart had nothing against the Magistrate that preceded Commodia, nor did he have a problem with the city government in general. He simply saw it as an impressive building. The center of the city even had a small park. Sakdrisi as a whole was nature stripped barren by man and his endless desire for the material. The peaceful and tranquil park looked almost otherworldly compared to the nearby hills, crisscrossed with long abandoned mining operations, or the strip mine pits beyond those hills. It was like it just didn't belong. It was alien. Forced into existence in spite of the surroundings by rich city officials who wanted to impress other wealthy visitors. Walhart and Hildegard walked along the edge of the park now, enjoying the quiet. It was an upscale part of the city, but that was only maintained by numerous city guard patrols that chased away anyone who didn't look like they belonged. Walhart was sure he was only avoiding their attention because Hildegard was with him, and she could see how nervous he was. "Walhart?"

"Y-yeah?"

"I said did you have fun with me today?"

"Oh, y-yeah. Heh, a-any moment with you is a good time to me." If feeling out of place wasn't bad enough, Walhart was already a wreck around Hildegard. This was their first date, and he was crippled with doubt and insecurities. Why did a woman so beautiful and intelligent want anything to do with him? "I'm sorry. That… that was horrible."

Hildegard giggled, and for a few painful moments Walhart tried to figure out if she was laughing with him or at him. A young woman's laugh has the paradoxical power to both reinforce and flatten a young man's ego. "Is that the best you had?"

"I'm sorry. I-I'm just really nervous."

"Don't be." Hildegard bit her lip. It was a small quirk Walhart would never get tired of seeing. "I think it's cute." A smile almost materialized on Walhart's face, which was generally stoic even in youth, but a more serious look of dread pushed it to the side. Hildegard could tell something was wrong, and she glanced back to see a city guard officer eyeing Walhart. He turned away when Hildegard looked, as if making sure she was with him by choice. "Don't let it get to you, Walhart."

"I don't think you understand." Walhart shifted in place. "I'm just a laborer. I don't belong here."

"You don't belong with me?"

"T-that's not what I said."

"But it's what you're thinking. Come on. Don't worry about what anyone else thinks. I like you." Hildegard motioned towards a custard tart in his hand that she'd bought for him. "Are you going to finish that?"

"O-of course." Walhart took another bite, and a bit of custard was left on his face. Hildegard giggled again.

"Now you've got some on your face."

"Huh?" Walhart furiously wiped it away, embarrassed. "Is it gone?!"

"No. You've still got some."

"Where?"

"On your lips. Let me just… get that for you." To Walhart's shock, Hildegard leaned in and gently brought her lips to his. She flashed an amorous look as she pulled away. "There. Got it."

For the first time that day, Hildegard would see a genuine smile from her date.

It was now about a year later. Walhart and Hildegard were together on a bench at the trading center by the copper mine. Walhart was holding a book, and Hildegard snuggled up next to him, pointing towards the pages. Walhart's eyes scanned the book, but only a glance was enough to tell you that he couldn't actually understand it. "Uh… heh…"

"You need my help again?"

"Uh… yeah."

"Don't be ashamed. I'm here to help you." Hildegard brought her soft brown eyes to the word Walhart was shyly pointing to. "This word here?"

"What is it?"

"That's 'tall'. It means of great height. So I would say you're tall."

Walhart scowled. "I know how to speak. I know what the words mean! I just need to know how to read them!"

"I'm just teasing you, babe. Now read the whole sentence."

"He… did not like this box. It was too tall."

"Very good. Now read the whole thing."

Yes, that's right. Walhart, the future Emperor of Valm, was essentially learning to read a children's book. Hildegard had taught him how to read, and she had to have started somewhere. "The cat wanted a new box. He did not like this box. It was too big."

Hildegard pointed to an illustration on the page. "There's the box right there."

"Don't mock me, woman!"

Hildegard giggled. "Alright, I'm done. Keep going."

Walhart turned the pages as he read. "He did not like this box. It was too small. He did not like this box. It was too short. He did not like this box. It was too tall." Walhart flipped to the last page, which had an illustration of the cat nursing kittens inside of a box. "But the cat liked this box. He was actually a she. The mother cat needed room for her kittens. This box was purr-fect."

"Ooh. Talk about a plot twist." Hildegard said sarcastically. Walhart shut the book.

"I feel stupid."

"Why?"

"Why?! That book was for a child!"

Hildegard became serious. "You're not stupid just because you didn't get an education as a child. Never feel like you're less capable than people who were already educated just because no one taught you earlier. Soon you'll be able to read whatever you want. Besides, if you're stupid, then what does that make me for spending so much time with you?" Walhart smiled, and the two kissed. Hildegard smiled back, but Walhart looked deep in thought. "What?"

"The last word. 'Purr-fect'. Is that a variation of perfect, or is that a pun?"

Hildegard had to stop herself from laughing. "That was a pun."

"Okay. Just making sure."

Another year passed. Walhart was eighteen now, and Hildegard was twenty. They were strolling by the same park from their first date, but the mood was somber. Neither had said anything to each other for almost ten minutes, and they aimlessly walked around.

"So…" Hildegard finally spoke up. "What do you think of that government official? What was her name… oh yeah, Commodia. She's rising pretty rapidly."

"Is that really what you want to talk about?"

"Well you avoided my last conversation!"

"I've told you this, Hildegard! It… it just can't happen!"

Hildegard stopped and looked deeply into Walhart's eyes. "We've been together for two years. I deserve to know where you want to take this. Now, you don't _want_ to get married, or you don't think we _can_?"

"What I want doesn't matter."

"Do you love me or not?!"

"I've loved you since the moment I first saw you." Walhart said sorrowfully. "But it's not right. You're a merchant's daughter, and I'm just a miner. It just doesn't happen."

"But Wally-"

"It's the way things are! Society is based on lineage! Everyone has their place! Someone like me has no place being with someone like you!"

"So… you won't propose to me."

"I can't!"

"Who cares what society thinks?! We love each other!"

Walhart looked down to his feet. "It's just not the world we live in. Hildegard, you should find a man you deserve. Someone who can provide a better future than me."

Walhart didn't know what to expect from Hildegard, but he certainly didn't anticipate the determined look he received. He wasn't sure where she was going with it, and he almost couldn't meet her gaze again. "Fine. If you won't propose, if you still don't think you belong with me just because of your birth, then I'll force you to see that I love you."

"Hildegard?" Looking into his eyes the entire time, Hildegard slowly fell to one knee as she pulled a small box out of her pocket. "Hildegard?!"

"I don't want a rich husband, Walhart. I want a husband I love! I've never been happier than I am now. I don't want it to end." Hildegard opened the box to reveal a ring. "Walhart… will you marry me?"

"Y-you're serious?! Y-you're a merchant… and a woman!"

"No. Women don't propose to men, and merchants don't propose to laborers." Hildegard gave a hopeful smile. "But who cares what society thinks. We are not accountable to society. We are only accountable to our own hearts. Walhart… what do you say?"

There was a moment of silence, but only because Walhart still grappled with the belief that he didn't deserve this kind of happiness. His lips quivered as a smile took his face, and he slowly nodded. "Yes."

"Yes?!"

"Yes, Hildegard. Gods yes!"

Time moved forward several years. Walhart was twenty five years old now, and Hildegard was twenty seven. Commodia was now Magistrate, and Walhart now worked at the gold mine for a marginally better salary than he got at the copper mine. Hildegard's father was dead, having died not long before their actual wedding, and Gloria had lived with the two ever since. In just three years Walhart would be forever set on the path to becoming the man the Shepherds would despise so, but for now he still enjoyed his old life.

The two were once more at the park, seated at a bench this time, and the mood was again somber. Hildegard wasn't hiding any frustration this time. She was just sad, and she leaned into Walhart as he gently rocked her. "How are you doing, Hildy?"

"I'm fine." She responded in a flat tone.

"You're so quiet."

"Walhart… what if we never have a child?"

"We just have to keep trying."

"We've been trying for years, and I'm only getting older! Maybe it's me. I'm older than you."

"By two years! What does that matter?!" Walhart held her tight. "You're being too hard on yourself."

"But what if it never happens, Walhart?! What if the gods never bless us with a child?!"

"The gods have nothing to do with it. All that matters is that we keep trying."

"But what if?!"

Walhart moved her to look directly in her eyes. "Years ago, I didn't even think I deserved to be with you, but you stood by my side until I realized I didn't have to be ashamed of my lineage. I didn't have to push away my own desires. Now I'll stand by your side. We'll have a child, my wife. We just have to believe that we can. Even if we don't, we'll still have each other."

Hildegard's fears didn't simply fade away at the comment, but she did genuinely feel better. She gently caressed her husband's cheek, and he took her hand in his own. "I love you, Walhart."

"I love you too. I don't… I don't know what I'd become without you."

In the present, Walhart understood why he was reliving these memories as he jerked awake. It had simply been a dream, and though Walhart had that nagging feeling that nothing was real in the back of his head one generally gets while dreaming, he didn't really care about the absurdity of it until he woke up. Even then, the emotions the dream brought back were overwhelming. "Hildegard." Walhart whimpered, fighting back tears. "Gods. Even after everything that's happened, I still miss you. So much."

"Aww, poor baby." Walhart thought he was alone, and he looked up in confusion to see Captain Decius. Walhart's first instinct wasn't fear or surprise. It was rage, and he immediately tried to lunge at the guard captain, but his hands wouldn't budge. Walhart's head cleared, and he looked around to find himself in a small room with no windows. He was bound to a chair he'd apparently fallen asleep in by his hands and feet, and he was dressed in little more than rags. Everything was coming back to Walhart now.

" _You_."

"Me." Decius responded dryly as he struck Walhart across the face. Walhart was a big man, and most men couldn't hurt him easily, but Decius was something else. The captain was an absolute brick shit house of a man. Standing over two meters tall, Decius had quite a bit of height on Walhart, and he would have towered over more average men like Chrom and M!Robin. Commodia, herself a little taller than the average woman, was tiny next to him, but she liked it that way. If anything, it was a very physical reminder of the kind of pull she had. Decius' armored gauntlet assisted blow threw Walhart's head to the side and made blood gush from his face. A lesser man would have been spitting out teeth. "The two of us are going to have a hell of a time, Hallmark."

"It's _Walhart_."

Decius only responded by striking him again.

* * *

Farber had known Walhart for almost four years now, and there wasn't anyone the Deliverance leader trusted more. Farber was increasingly willing to do anything Walhart asked of him, and he was happy for the chance to prove himself. Unfortunately, Farber just wasn't the natural leader Walhart was. It was everything he had just to keep the gladiators of Kronshtadt together, and he had no ability whatsoever to command them. He simply hadn't earned their respect as Walhart had.

Having been commanded by Excellus through a letter to move the Deliverance to Sakdrisi entirely, this situation was unacceptable to Nelson.

"Rough day, Farber?"

Nelson stepped into what had been the VIP viewing box of one of the underground arenas in Kronshtadt. Farber had it as his personal office now, and it was littered with clutter. The blonde, muscular man in the center of the room currently burying his face in his hands while seated at his desk was just as much a mess. Without Walhart, Farber had seemed to regress somewhat. His clothes were dirty, he'd just woken up though it was late in the afternoon, and Nelson could tell what he had for dinner last night from the stains on his shirt. If the stress of trying to command at least a hundred men wasn't enough, Farber didn't have the motivation to even live like an adult without Walhart around anymore. It was a disturbing sight to Nelson, partially because he found it pitiful.

But partially because he hoped he wouldn't end up that way without Excellus.

"Look, I already told you." Farber moaned without looking up. "I can't give you any money for a lawyer. Just settle it with the girl's father."

"Excuse me?"

Farber finally brought his head up, revealing to Nelson just how despondent he'd become. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Problems with the men?"

"I have a sixth… no, seventh sexual harassment accusation on one of the gladiators now. Don't know if it really happened. Don't really care. I'm this close to just booting all the accused out. Why do men turn into such idiots around women?"

"The problem is simple. The gladiators here lack direction, so their more primitive wants take over."

"Tell me about it." Farber sighed as he rose to his feet. "Of course, I can't do that with every crime. If I kicked out everyone accused of theft, for example, we'd lose half the men. They've all become little better than brigands, and I'm sure the guards won't look the other way forever. I… I just can't motivate them like Walhart. They won't train. They won't stay in one place. They call me… a kid."

"You are only twenty three."

"You're about my age."

"And as you can see, so much more influential. Sounds like you need help."

Farber eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want, Nelson?"

The young man gave a grin. It wasn't as slimy as what Excellus was capable of, but it was getting there. "Only to help you, my companion. If you must know, my master—the man who, in his infinite benevolence, provided your Deliverance with weapons—has informed me of a terrible tragedy." Nelson pretended to be concerned. ""Walhart has been accused of murder, and he's been imprisoned."

Farber's face contorted with sadness, almost like a whimpering puppy. "Not Walhart! Mila, take me instead! NO!"

"Yeesh, calm down… I mean, my master has a plan to free him, or rather, he has a plan for you to free him."

"How?"

"Use the resources at your disposal. Walhart was smart. He left the gladiators here with you so that the revolution could continue if he was silenced. You do see the brilliance of Walhart's planning, don't you?"

"Of course I do… but why don't you explain it to me so I know you see it."

"Walhart wanted you to be able to come to his aid. You can mobilize the men left here, meet up with the Deliverance Walhart built at Sakdrisi, and overwhelm Commodia's forces. This is what he wanted. You wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you?"

"Of course not!" Farber thought about everything Nelson was suggesting. "But… come on. You want me to just get all the men together and march to Sakdrisi? What would stop the city guard from cracking down on us? Besides, Walhart told me to stay here. I wouldn't want to do anything that would upset him."

"But this was clearly his plan. Surely you see his brilliance."

Farber squinted at Nelson. He'd apparently been too blunt with his suggestions. "How do you know what Walhart wants?"

"Anyone could see it if they'd just look. I thought surely his lieutenant would have thought of this. In fact, I'm shocked you didn't."

"Look, Nelson, I don't fully trust you. You're only loyal to your master in Sakdrisi, not Walhart. For all I know, you're secretly working with Commodia, and this is one of her schemes."

"I assure you my master is not another one of Commodia's bootlickers. His interests align with Walhart's. All I want is to help you."

Farber got up from the desk. He stood well over Nelson, and the young mage couldn't help but take a few steps back. "Get out, Nelson. Don't come back unless you have something important to report."

Nelson only returned a smile and gave a bow. "As you wish."

Farber glared at him as he left. "What a suck up. Now… what can I do to make Walhart proud of me?"

Nelson wouldn't have has place at Excellus' side if he couldn't carry out his orders, and he wasn't done with Farber. If the Quaestor wanted the Deliverance moved to Sakdrisi entirely to finally ignite the powder keg Walhart's actions had caused, then the Deliverance would be moved to Sakdrisi. All Nelson had to do was be a quiet voice in Farber's ear. To convince him it was his idea, and that it was what Walhart wanted. The working man's best friend he'd brought with him would certainly help.

"Knock, knock." Nelson said as he tapped on the open door and stepped back into the office. It had been a few hours, and the sun would set soon. Farber had dressed himself and was cleaned up, but he still had a glazed look in his eye. He was struggling to read a piece of paper as Nelson walked in, and he focused like he'd been stuck on it for some time now.

"Huh? W-what?" Farber glanced back up, squinting as his eyes adjusted. "Oh, it's you. I thought I told you to-"

"Oh yes, I remember. Forgive me for my impudence. In fact, I came here to apologize."

"Uh… okay? I wasn't angry, Nelson. I just wanted you to stop wasting my time."

"Yes, yes. A man like you is always busy." Nelson approached the desk and gently set a bag down in front of Farber. "Of course, you weren't always such a strong, important man. The miners of Sakdrisi were known for their love of cold ale after a long days work, weren't they?"

"Uh… yeeaaah?"

Farber was clearly still dismissive of Nelson, but his attention was also focused on the bag, and Nelson knew he'd soon have him. "I'm glad. I was hoping you'd appreciate my gift."

"Gift?"

Nelson pulled a very expensive bottle of ale from the bag and did a kind of hand model routine to further draw Farber's attention to it. The bottle had come from Excellus' private collection, and Nelson had taken it with him for just the right moment. "Consider it my way of saying sorry."

Farber stared at the bottle. Hell, he was practically drooling over it, but a more highly evolved part of his mind eventually managed to kick in. Farber didn't seem to want to reject the bottle, but he finally got a hold of himself. "You clearly want something, Nelson. I don't know what your master has to gain from us being in Sakdrisi, but I really doubt you actually have Walhart's best interests in mind."

"Hey, hey! I just wanted to do something nice for my new ally."

Farber tried to give the bottle back to Nelson, but he couldn't seem to part with it. "I don't respond to bribes. Now take this bottle… and… oh. It's so cold."

Nelson waved his hand, and a cool breeze hit the two of them. "Magic can be very convenient. Of course, you know that full well. You've become quite the mage haven't you?"

"Y-yeah." Farber held up his own hand. A fireball materialized, but it sputtered out after a few moments. Farber cleared his throat and sat up, pretending it had been intentional. "I-I'm getting better."

"Getting better? Why, as a mage myself, I'd say you've already shown more talent than most people who try to learn. It doesn't surprise me. You've got brains and brawn. Just like Walhart. You're so much like him."

"I'm not one of the crabs the fishermen here pull from the sea floor. Quit trying to butter me up."

Nelson laughed. "Oh, that's good. I was simply stating facts. It's really no wonder to everyone else why Walhart put you in charge. You're so… commanding. Yes the men are being rowdy as of late, but it's just been a dry spell. They need something to do. They need to see Walhart again."

"Uh huh. Anyways, I think you should-"

"Don't you remember those afternoons with Walhart? Just the two of you, having a pint of ale? We're all so serious now, but it'd be nice to be reminded of that again, huh?"

"Come on, Nelson. I have work to do."

Nelson smiled, confident the desire had been driven quite thoroughly into Farber's mind. "Of course. Well… if you won't be having this…"

Nelson opened the bottle and pulled out a glass from the bag. He took an agonizingly long time pouring the ale for himself, and he exaggerated his enjoyment of a long, deep swig. Farber tried not to look, but he couldn't hide his frustration. "Could you… not do that?"

"You said you didn't want it, so I guess I'll have to enjoy it. Shame. There's enough for two."

"Just… quit drinking it in front of me!"

Nelson chuckled, swirling his ale around. "Farber, don't be so envious. Do you want some?"

"No. I-I don't want it! I'm busy!"

And so Nelson sat there for a few minutes, taking long sips and acting like each one was a condensed orgasm in liquid form. Farber's eyes constantly drifted to the glass, and he ended up rereading the same sentences over and over when he went back to the paper. Nelson studied him calmly, and he waited for just the right moment. When Farber was at breaking point, and just before Nelson thought he'd snap and tell him to go, the mage pulled out a second glass and edged it towards Farber. Game, set, match. "What is this?"

"Just remembered I had that. I thought we might be sharing it, after all. You sure you don't want any?"

"Stop it!"

"Well I'll just pour you one, just in case." Nelson gave a friendly smile as he did just that and offered it to Farber. He was sure he had him now, and it was everything he had to keep his smile from obnoxiously spanning ear to ear. "Come on, buddy. You look tense. If that cheap ale in Sakdrisi could help you relax after a long day in the mine, then think of what this could do. Just try it. Nothing's stopping you."

"I… I shouldn't drink right now."

"Ale was good enough for Walhart right? Are you saying you… think yourself better than him?"

"Huh?! No!"

"I bet he'd enjoy it."

"He did like a cold pint of ale… and so do I. Well… I can't let this just… go to waste…"

Half an hour passed, though Farber was long past being able to keep track of time. Nelson hadn't even finished half of his glass. He was careful to only pretend to drink. Farber, on the other hand, had killed most of the bottle, and the only reason it wasn't finished was because he couldn't stop running his mouth. "A-and another great thing about Walhart is that, is that he, is that he, is that the uh, is the little things!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah! He doesn't just command us! He's not just a boss! He's a leader! He trains with the men. He does laundry. He cleans out bedpans! He cares about the common man! The people need leaders like him!"

"And why don't the people just lead society themselves?"

"Because people are stupid! These gladiators? They're stupid! Dumb as seagull crap! Me? I'm stupid! You! You're stupid! We're all a bunch of stupid! Not Walhart! The people need great men like him to lead! It's just that we have to make sure our leaders care about the people. These nobles don't care about the common man, but Walhart does. That's why he should lead. Gods, Walhart is so great. He's just… he's just so great. He's… he's great. I can't really explain it, except that he's great. He's just so great. He fights feudalists and doesn't afraid of anything."

"Yeah-yeah-yeah." Nelson interjected, annoyed.

Farber's face scrunched up. "I miss him so much."

"He's been gone for less than two months."

"Even before he left! He's so distant. We used to always hang out. He didn't have many friends in the mine, and I was glad cause, cause those… those buttheads probably didn't appreciate him like I did! Ever since he became a gladiator, he's always been busy. We don't do things anymore. I'd do anything to make him proud of me! I don't have anyone else! No parents. No wife. I don't even know if I want a wife. What have wives ever given men?! Just… just… uh… dumb wife things. No woman could be as great as Walhart!"

"Uh… alright." Nelson took a few moments to take that in before brushing it to the side. "It sounds like you, no, all of us, would be lost without him."

"He's the only man who can change society. Who can stop people like Commodia."

Nelson pretended to recoil in shock. "Oh no."

"What?"

"Oh no! This is terrible!"

"W-what?!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Farber. It just slipped my mind!"

"What? Tell me, you scrawny little booze giver guy!"

"Walhart wasn't just imprisoned. My master told me he was given a _life sentence_. He's never getting out… unless someone helps him."

Farber had a miniature panic attack, taking rapid breaths and whimpering. "Ah… but… not… but he… he can't… I need… but… waaaaaAAAAHHH! Not dear leader!"

"My gods, calm down!" Nelson smiled. "I mean, fear not. We can save him." Nelson stood up, walked behind Farber, and gently rested his hands on his shoulders. " _You_ can save him. Think of how proud he would be."

"But—*sniffle*—how?"

"By following my master… I mean, _Walhart's_ plan. Rally the men. Tell them Walhart is in danger." Nelson bent over and whispered in his ear. "And under your command, the Deliverance will show Commodia that the working man cannot be pushed around, and Walhart will be free to launch the revolution."

"I don't know. You're talking about violence. I mean, I've killed before, but… on this scale… I don't know."

"Don't you want to save him? Don't you want him to be proud of you?"

"Yeah, but… I'm not sure… uh… why are you touching me, man?"

To Farber's surprise, Nelson applied pressure on his shoulders, and the gladiator immediately felt tension he didn't even know he had melt away. "You're so stiff. Just trying to help you think."

Nelson's hands drifted lower, and Farber became like clay in them. There was a base part of him that didn't at all dislike what was happening, but that only embarrassed his conscious mind. "L-look, we don't know each other that well… and… I don't feel… great beard of Kyros. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Oh, I'm a man of many talents. In fact, I was almost Commodia's personal masseur. That would have given me great access to information. Unfortunately, the Magistrate decided she didn't want to be touched by a man that could conjure fire from his hands. Not everyone appreciates mages like us."

"Who the hell wouldn't appreciate your hands." Farber moaned. "Uh, I mean… what were we talking about?"

"You were going to save Walhart's life. He needs you, Farber."

"He does?"

"Yes. My master will help once we get to Sakdrisi. All you have to do is gather the men. Be the leader Walhart so obviously sees in you."

Farber didn't wrestle with the idea anymore. Instead, he pondered the logistics of it. "I'll have to get the carriages set up to leave. Plus, the men don't listen to me."

"Rally them."

"How?"

"Like Walhart did." Nelson pulled out something else he'd been saving for this moment. It was a copy of _Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation_. Farber most likely didn't have the capacity to rally the men himself, but he could always use Walhart's words. "Read this to them. Inspire them."

"You think that will work?"

"Of course it will. Most of those men can't read. They've never had the opportunity to read this. Speak to them. Electrify them. What, you think Walhart's words aren't good enough?"

"Of course not!"

"Then prove it. Assemble the men."

"I will! I'm going to assemble the men!"

"Why?"

"Because… you think it's the best way to save him?"

"No. Please, it was your suggestion. This is what you want. You're such a strong leader. Walhart was right to leave you in charge."

"Yeah. This was my idea, wasn't it? Yeah! This can work! I'm sure it can!"

Nelson didn't have to hide his menacing smile anymore. "Very good."

It was nightfall when the two finished gathering the Deliverance in Kronshtadt. Only about a fourth of the gladiators bothered to show up, but Nelson wasn't worried. The men would willingly gather their other comrades once they'd been inspired. All Farber had to do was make the speech.

Unfortunately, Nelson hadn't completely thought the plan through. Farber was still quite hammered, and his attempt to read from _Peace In Our Time_ wasn't going well. Even if he wasn't drunk, Farber only read as well as a modern seven year old. "And… uh… in science, there is the concept of a taxonomy. A taxonomy is concerned with classifying orgasms."

"Organisms." Nelson whispered to him.

"Oh, right. Orgasmsinisms. Wait… what the hell is that?"

"Just keep reading."

Farber flipped the page. "And… uh… families occasionally rise in prominence, but more commonly they fall. Sometimes the evolving economy causes new social classes to rise. Uh… what does evolving mean?"

"There's no way Walhart wrote anything that boring!" One of the gladiators barked.

"What does this have to do with saving him from prison?!" Another of the men roared.

"Hey, shut up!" Farber snapped. "Walhart left me in charge!"

"Eat me!" The man responded.

"Eat me raw!" Another chimed in.

Nelson face palmed. "This isn't going well. Farber… allow me."

"Sure. Just make sure to credit me. This was my idea."

"Of course it was." Nelson read through the samizdat writings, deciding on the parts that would resonate with the men. "My brothers, we don't have to accept what Commodia did to Walhart! We don't have to accept the way things are! My brothers, look at who you are, and look at the nobles that rule us! Walhart's words inspired you all once! Now, let them inspire you again! If you could step outside of society and look at things objectively, you would see that it is a prison. It is a prison full of willing people. They choose to be a part of it. Peasants choose to prop up their lords through their labor. Soldiers choose to fight for greedy and self serving monarchs. They don't know any better. Feudalism has created a society without social mobility."

The men started to pay attention. Nelson stepped forward, but he was careful to still be behind Farber. He didn't want all the attention to be on himself. Farber had to be the figurehead. "The truth about feudalism is that it is entirely about control. An educated, multi-skilled populace is an empowered populace. It is harder for an oligarchy to reign over this populace. They stunt our potential to control us. They keep us stuck in the same jobs for generations. Deny education to commoners. Prevent us from leaving our lands without the permission of the feudal lord, who we are expected to be grateful for because they gave us the chance to work. This is all about controlling us. The great fantasy of history isn't that strong men and women exist, for there have been many heroes of legend. No the fantasy is that the lords and nobles care about the common man. The system is rigged."

The men began to bark and yell in agreeance, and Nelson egged them on. "Be happy in your work, they say. Be grateful for the opportunity. Be thankful for the system. Mind your betters, for they think for you. Enough. Reject the system. My brothers, we have no betters! All men are made equal, and we should be able to rise based on merit and force of will! Only we should decide what we do with our lives! We don't have to let people like Commodia command us. We can be free to make our own choices. To forge our own destinies. But first, we must overthrow the oppressors, and the manner must be _definitive_."

The men roared, genuinely inspired by the words they'd never gotten the opportunity to read. "No gods! No kingdoms! No masters!

Farber stepped forward, ready to take the spotlight, and Nelson was happy to let him. "Yeah! No gods! No kingdoms! No… uh… no third thing! Come on, men! Let's go to Sakdrisi, and let's kick some feudalist arse! Get the other gladiators and get ready to move!"

The men dispersed, and Nelson nodded to Farber. "Come see me tomorrow, when you're sober enough to remember things. My master has a gift for us once we reach Sakdrisi."

* * *

When we think of prison, we have a tendency to think of the concept as the bog-standard for criminal justice. Commit a serious crime? Expect to go to prison. This hadn't always been the case. Prisons have to take care of their prisoners. They need food. Healthcare. Clothes. This costs. Before the rise of more centralized, industrial states, and before such ideas as all people deserving food and care became mainstream, criminal justice largely revolved around minimizing cost to the state. Why should the kingdom have to spend good money feeding and clothing degenerates? In the societies of the period, punishment was swift, cheap, and simple. Minor crimes often lead to public humiliation. More serious crimes would lead to branding. The most serious crimes lead to exile. No one cared what happened to the criminal after that. Furthemore, virtually all crimes, no matter how heinous, could legally be settled if the accused paid money to the victim. If they couldn't afford this, they could work as indentured servants to avoid any other punishment. The local lords hardly cared. As long as the government didn't have to handle it.

This isn't to say that there weren't prisons, but they didn't expend resources on prisoners for nothing. Save for such circumstances as war, prisons didn't usually hold people unless there was money to be made. For example, nobles who committed crimes that would get a commoner exiled or executed often ended up in prison, not to be rehabilitated, but because whoever ran the prison eagerly anticipated a hefty ransom from the family.

Commodia was a bit of a forward thinker, however. As Magistrate, Commodia had built a significantly expanded prison system from anything that the kingdom had ever seen, and she'd done it all while making a nice profit for herself. Her primary prison, known simply as "The Rig", was an all male maximum security facility that regularly held over a thousand men. The facility was built like a military fortress, complete with a fortified keep to house the most notorious inmates. A small town worth of buildings housed most of the inmates and provided long term residence for the guards, and a stone wall surrounded all of this.

The Rig wasn't just a symbol of power to Commodia. It was practically a mint. The men imprisoned there were made to perform labor for the benefit of her government. They made clothes in sweatshops, grew cash crops; cotton, indigo, barley, and grapes outside of the walls, and processed copper ore pulled from a nearby mine—the very same one a teenaged Walhart had worked at. Commodia made good money on their backs, but The Rig was so much more than the destination of many Sakdrisi criminals. Commodia had worked out a deal with Kremnica, and any prisoners of war and suspected foreign spies that couldn't be held in the capital for whatever reason were sent there. Captured brigands, foreign or otherwise, were shipped to The Rig too. Commodia profited off of their labor, but she was also paid a hefty fee to take in these prisoners in the first place. The Rig was a way for lords and bureaucrats across the kingdom to quickly get rid of dangerous men, and Commodia profited from each and every one. Lastly, the facility had a (relatively) comfortable area for prisoners of noble blood, as many aristocrats ended up there too. Rich noblewomen sent cheating husbands. Elder brothers sent younger brothers who threatened their positions. Children sent aging and increasingly senile fathers. These men weren't made to work, but their families had to pay Commodia continuously to keep them there.

With all these sources of income, The Rig easily paid for itself, and the profits also sustained a hidden offshore prison where Commodia sent the people she _really_ didn't want to see again. Walhart and the other miners were originally supposed to be sent there, but Ruger's actions saved them, and the rest is history. Commodia wasn't going to risk it again, and this time Walhart was simply sent to The Rig alongside most of the city's petty criminals. This wasn't to say he didn't get special treatment…

Decius personally tortured Walhart night after night, day after day, for the better half of three weeks. Commodia had commanded him to get the locations of all the Deliverance cells by any means necessary, and so time and time again the Captain, The Deliverance leader, and any additional personnel necessary for whatever torture Decius had selected for the day would spend hours in a small room in the facility's keep. Walhart's screams were quite audible to people in the courtyard, and he became the subject of innumerable rumors by the general population. Decius frequently had to return to Sakdrisi to fulfill his responsibilities as guard captain, keeping the torture from being continuous, but even then the guards were instructed to harass him in any way they could. Walhart was made to perform exceptionally difficult manual labor, all while dealing with malnutrition and sleep deprivation, and he was frequently subject to random beatings and isolation from social contact with other prisoners.

If any part of the boy Hildegard fell in love with over ten years prior remained before that point, it was gone now, and Walhart continued to seethe in hate and frustration.

No one in Commodia's government dared to challenge her decisions, and few wanted to, but there was someone openly looking out for Walhart. Someone he'd never suspect.

"Let me in, for Naga's sake!"

Father Tyranus had been one of Commodia's closest supporters for years. She gave him special privileges in Sakdrisi, and in return he had used his "gift" to help her on numerous occasions. That said, Tyranus didn't always see eye to eye with his benefactor. The priest fancied himself a man of god, and he secretly held Commodia in contempt for her greed. Learning that Commodia was trying to quietly torture Walhart in preparation for a crackdown on the Deliverance was crossing the line for him. In Tyranus' mind, everything he'd done to Walhart that fateful night was for his benefit. He was trying to "save" him, and the priest figured everything happening now could have been prevented if only he had his way. He couldn't stand by and let this wayward soul be tortured to death. Tyranus' sense of morality was skewed, but it was still there. He still thought Walhart could be saved.

Of course, going to The Rig would involve legwork, so Nominus was sent to actually meet with him.

"Does Commodia want you to be here?"

Nominus scowled at the prison guard trying to prevent him from entering the keep. "I was let in here, wasn't I?"

"That doesn't mean you're supposed to be _here_. You can't see the prisoner unless Commodia gave you authorization."

"We know what you people are doing, and Father Tyranus won't have it! This is a lost soul! He needs to be saved! You can't just beat him to death!"

"Get out of here, priest. You have no authority here."

"Pathetic brutes." Nominus stepped to the side, thinking about his options. He glanced to the side at the sound of heavily armored footsteps to see Captain Decius approaching. His nigh eternal professional look was gone. Instead, his expression was twisted with unadulterated fury. "C-captain?"

"Out of my way!" Decius barked as he brushed by Nominus, almost throwing him to the ground. Nominus then looked up to see Decius staring at him, as if he just now realized he was out of place. "Wait, what are you doing here, priest?!"

"I know-"

"Don't care. Doesn't matter." Decius grabbed him by the shoulder. "I could actually use you. Come with me."

"Uh-" Nominus was taken into the keep as Decius shoved the guard aside and stormed in. "Okay?"

Decius lead the confused priest through the winding hallways of the citadel until they reached the small room that had bore witness to so much of Walhart's pain. The former miner was worse than Nominus could have imagined. He was covered only by a loincloth, and his bare skin was covered in gashes, injuries, and blood both fresh and dry. His long, flowing hair had been shaved off entirely, and his eyes were almost forced shut by swelling. Last, but certainly not least, metal rods were going _through_ the tendons on the back of his bare feet, leaving him unable to support his own weight. Walhart would be forced to stay in the chair that held him even if he wasn't tied to it. "By the gods! How… how can you treat a man this way?!"

"Shut up!" Decius grabbed Nominus by his light green hair. "Just do as I say."

"What?! What do you want?!"

"Give him his last rites. If I'm going to kill him here and now in this pisshole, I might as well make it as official as I can."

Nominus froze. "W-what? What?! You're going to kill him!"

"Just now figure that out?"

"I know Commodia wants him alive!"

"No. Commodia always wanted him dead, but not before he gave the locations of the other cells. I don't care about that anymore, because I CAN'T BREAK HIM!" Decius struck Walhart in the face out of spite. The Deliverance leader was fully awake. He just refused to make a sound. "Day after day of this, and he just won't break! I'm sick of it! No more mind games. No more sleep deprivation. No more bamboo splints. No more weird genital crap."

"Come again?!"

"Commodia can't always get what she wants. I'm not waiting anymore. He's a threat so long as he lives, and I won't deal with him any longer. Give him his rites!"

Nominus was only a little less slimy inside as his mentor, but he too styled himself a paragon of morality. He couldn't preside over a murder. Not without trying to do _something_. "Y-you can't do that! You're supposed to be an officer of the law, and Commodia wants him alive!"

"You don't know what the Magistrate wants!" Decius shoved Nominus forward. "Besides, Commodia couldn't tell her knickers from her own ass without me! She won't dismiss me because of one little accident. Give him his rites!"

"I… can't… be a part of this."

Decius shook his head. "Worthless." Forgetting Nominus, the captain stepped in front of Walhart and just stood there, motionless, until Walhart finally brought his head up to meet his gaze. This seemed to provoke Decius, almost like a chimpanzee or a gorilla, and he began to savagely strike Walhart. Blood poured from his face and splattered across the captain's polished armor, and this only seemed to enrage him further. "You know, I don't normally indulge in this sort of thing, but you're special. I notice you refuse to make a sound. Unfortunately, I consider that something of a challenge." Walhart only glared back in between punches, and the captain struck him more furiously until there were no breaks between blows. "You brought this on yourself. If it weren't for people like you, there wouldn't be any conflict. The world would be at peace. You're just a pathetic, mindless drone who didn't know his place. I'm going to kill you, and no one will ever question it. I'll just say you slipped your bonds. I'll say you had to be put down. No one will care. You're just another nobody. Another statistic. Another wasted life who will never accomplish anything. Another worthless peasant that left no trace. No one will ever remember you existed. You should've lived quietly. Try to remember that when your brain begins hemorrhaging. You did this to yourself. No one will ever remember your name!"

Decius might have been right about all of that had Nominus not suffered a crisis of morality. "Stop it!" He shouted as he bravely stepped in front of Decius. "This isn't right! I am a man of the gods, and I can't just let you do this!"

"Get out of my way!"

"Y-you can't disobey Commodia!"

"She trusts me! She won't care!"

"What if you're wrong?! What if the Deliverance grows out of control, and her plan is undone because of you?!"

In one of the great ironies history, Walhart's life was saved by a priest as Decius hesitated long enough for another guard to burst in. "Captain!"

"What?!"

"Commodia has demanded you return to Sakdrisi immediately. She says it's _urgent_."

Decius silently snarled. He was an animal in plate armor. "That woman needs to let me control things. She should give me what I need! What does she know about security?! Still… I can't disobey her. I'd be stuck on foot rub duty for a month." Decius glared at Nominus. "This isn't over."

Nominus stood there for over a minute after the two left, trembling. He was amazed he hadn't been hurt by the captain, and he'd honestly forgotten Walhart was even there when he idly turned and noticed him. "Oh… uh. Hello there." Walhart still refused to speak. His face was drenched in blood now, but Nominus could hear him breathing. He wasn't dead, but there was no telling how long that would last. Decius could have easily fractured his skull. "You're Golfcart, right?"

Walhart finally spoke. "It's… WALHART!"

"S-sorry! I knew that wasn't right. Anyways, I don't know if you remember me, but we've met before. Surely you remember Tyranus?" Walhart went back to being silent, and Nominus decided to just monologue. "I know you probably feel differently, but we were trying to help you that night. We didn't want you to suffer like this. We just wanted you to be able to live a happy life. Individuality is a disease. We were trying to cure you. I'm sorry we couldn't do more for you… and I'm sorry about your family." Walhart had to fight the urge to scream at Nominus, and he visibly struggled against his bonds. The priest skittered back. "Uh, heh. I'll just get to the point. I don't know how long you have left, and I don't think anyone can save you. Still… you deserve something." Nominus took out a small container of olive oil and dabbed his hand in it. Hesitating, he eventually began to rub it on Walhart's face as he began his ritual. "I hope you find the peace you never found in this life with Naga."

* * *

Though he inevitably sobered up, Farber was left with the impression that traveling to Sakdrisi with the men left under his command was a great idea. Though he initially had a hard time finding the Deliverance cells, as Ruger had mysteriously disappeared, the hundred men that came thundering into the outskirts of the town attracted a lot of attention, and the rest of the Deliverance eventually found Farber on their own. Though some were hesitant, most quickly rallied under him when he told them of his plan to free Walhart, and Farber soon had over four hundred men under his banner. Still, numbers does not an army make. Most of these men had never been in a life threatening situation before, and the weapons Excellus had been smuggling into Kronshtadt weren't enough for everyone. Beyond all that, not all the men were willing to turn to violence yet. Not even to save Walhart.

Perhaps those various problems would have been enough to prevent the first real battle of Walhart's rise from taking place, but all that was before Nelson showed Farber the gift Excellus had left for the Deliverance...

The guards stationed at The Rig were used to dealing with unruly prisoners. They were generally second rate men and women that had previously served with the city guard when younger, but were now too old. They had metal armor and weapons, but they never expected to fend off a major attack, and they most assuredly never expected to deal with projectiles weighing up to 90 kilograms being launched at them from up to 300 meters away.

A specially designed mobile trebuchet (and the trained men needed to operate it) had been provided to Farber, and he put it to good use as the Deliverance began its attack on The Rig. Affectionately named _This Machine_ , (after the phrase "This Machine Kills Feudalists" that the men had inscribed on the side) the trebuchet quickly went to work slinging projectiles weighing up to 90 kilograms that Excellus had provided for it up to 300 meters to hit the fortifications of The Rig. Farber moved the men towards the walls as the barrage continued, and _This Machine_ eventually managed to blow the gate leading into the courtyard apart with a well placed shot. The Deliverance swarmed into the prison, those with weapons going first, and all hell broke loose.

History would remember that it was only possible because they had access to a machine capable of launching up to 90 kilogram projectiles up to 300 meters. For the record, a catapult probably wouldn't have been enough.

What the prison guards had in experience, they lacked in equipment and resolve. What the Deliverance lacked in experience, they made up for in fervor and rage, and they had the best equipment Excellus' money could buy. Their numbers also overwhelmed the scattered guards, and Farber himself lead a group of men in cutting their way into the keep. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Farber broke off from the group and furiously made his way down the halls, burning any guard that dared stand in his way with magefire, until he finally came across Walhart's room. But for that the blood had settled, Walhart looked as he had after Decius' attack less than an hour prior. He barely clung to life, and the sight brought Farber to tears. "Walhart. What… what did they do to you?"

"... Farber?" Walhart slowly looked up. Farber was the first friendly face Walhart had seen since the trial, and he broke down crying. "I didn't tell you to leave."

"N-no. I found out about what happened. I couldn't stay there."

"You… actually came for me. I… I thought I'd die here."

Farber cut him free and gently rested his hand on his friend and superior's cheek. "It's going to be okay. I'm here. Gods… gods, what the hell did they do to you?!"

"Farber… my feet."

"Huh?" Farber winced as he noticed the bolts. "Those monsters. Err, hold on. This is going to hurt, but I have an elixir for you afterwards." Unsure of what else to do, Farber pulled the bolts out, doing his best to power through Walhart's tortured screams, and quickly handed him the promised elixir. Walhart drank it, healing his wounds, but he still had to lean into Farber as he carried him to the wall. "Easy. Come on, buddy." He ran his hand along Walhart's cheek as the titan's strength returned to him. "Easy."

"Farber… no more."

"Walhart?"

Walhart's white eyes burned with fury, and Farber suddenly turned away as if the sun itself had materialized in front of him. "No more believing in the illusion of peace. No more pretending that the people will make society change on their own. No more pretending that those in power will be reasonable. We're going to force the issue."

"We're, uh… way ahead of you, buddy."

"Stop! I'm a man of the gods! You can't do this to me! STOP!" Farber and Walhart looked up to see Nominus stumble into the room, an armed member of the Deliverance looming over him. Perhaps the man assumed everyone inside of The Rig was guilty for what had happened to Walhart. Perhaps he was caught up in a bloodlust. Either way, he had no compunction about killing the priest right then and there, but Walhart halted him with a simple raise of his arm. Nominus lit up at the sight of him. "You! Walhart! That's your name, right? Remember me? I tried to help you!"

Walhart finally rose to his feet on his own for the first time in hours. "You should have left with the captain, priest."

"W-wait! Be reasonable!"

"You claim to be a man of a higher power, and yet here you are begging for your life. In the end, you only care about self preservation. Like an insect."

"What do you want from me?!"

"Get up." Nominus slowly did as he was told. He shivered uncontrollably, and he audibly whimpered. Walhart reveled in the sight. He'd been a play thing of Decius for three weeks. Now he finally had power over someone else.

He'd never forget the feeling it gave him.

"What?! W-what?!"

"Shut up! Do not speak unless I tell you to!" Walhart barked. Nominus went white. "You see, our revolution is beginning, and there is no room for the church in the world we're building. Religion is a form of control. It offers succor in return for docility and bestows power into imagined beings instead of man. If you want to survive this, you must prove that there can be a place for you in our new world." Nominus slowly nodded, and Walhart gave a sadistic smile. "Now. Repeat after me. There is no Naga."

"Nominus gave a long sigh, but he knew what would happen if he resisted. "Gods forgive me-"

"WHAT?!"

"I mean, I mean, there is no Naga!" Nominus corrected.

"There is no Mila."

"There… is no Mila."

"There is no Tiki."

"There… is no Tiki."

"And even if these beings do exist, they are nothing more than lizards."

"And even if these beings do exist, they are… nothing more than… lizards."

"The only thing that matters is the will of man."

"The… only thing that matters is the will of man."

Walhart put his arm around the priest in a bullying manner. "Very good, _brother_. Farber, make sure this man is unharmed."

"Of course."

"And put him in chains."

Nominus looked uneasily at Farber, who gave a thuggish look of his own. "With pleasure. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Farber… our revolution needs to grow. Free the prisoners."

"We don't think any other members of the Deliverance were imprisoned here."

"No. Not just the ones we came in with. Everyone. Rapists. Murderers. Thieves. Foreign soldiers. I don't care. They all walk free."

"Uh… of course."

* * *

Dressing himself in armor taken from dead prison guards, Walhart stood on a balcony now, and about a thousand prisoners and four hundred members of the Deliverance were gathered before him. The former prisoners had no idea who Walhart was, nor did they care for his beliefs, but they had his Deliverance to thank for their freedom, and they were at least willing to listen to him. For his part, Walhart had a surefire way to draw the crowd's attention. He turned as the captured commander of the facility was brought before him by two of his gladiators. The crowd went into a fervor at the sight of him, and Walhart grabbed the man by the hair and held him up like a caught fish for all to see. The commander, a man no younger than sixty, had already been savaged by the prisoners who captured him. His clothes were torn and bloody, and he'd been non-lethally stabbed by small knives and utensils over two dozen times. Walhart basked in the fury of the prisoners before throwing the man back to the ground, and he nodded to Farber as he approached with a large, two handed battle axe.

"Here you go, Walhart. Something to do the deed with." Walhart examined the axe as he took it. It was covered in gold plating and featured bright purple highlights, and symbols of the monarchy were engraved into it. "I watched you when you were fighting as a gladiator in those pit matches all those months ago."

"Your point?"

"I noticed you did better with two handed weapons than you did with your short sword. I figured you might like this weapon. We think it was a personal weapon of Decius'."

"Hmm." Walhart felt the weight of it in his hands as he tightened his grip. "Yes. There's something about this."

"I had a feeling you'd like it. It's an impressive weapon. Something to make the concept of a fair fight the other guy's problem."

"Please." The elderly man in front of Walhart whimpered. "Let me die."

Walhart slammed the axe down in front of him as he forced him to his feet. "Tell them who you are."

"They know who I am."

"TELL THEM WHO YOU ARE!"

He reluctantly turned to the crowd. "I am the governor of The Rig! I work for the Magistrate!"

Walhart struck him in the back, knocking him to his knees. "My brothers! Listen to me! I know many of you are not familiar with who I am. My name is Walhart, and it was my Deliverance that liberated you from this prison. I ask for nothing in return. Instead, I offer a chance to strike back at the ones who put you here." Walhart gestured to the commander. "Look at this pathetic man. Look at the contempt he has for us! Look at the loathing! The fear! The nobles and their bootlickers fear us, for they fear the power we have. We are not burdened by fear, and we will make our mark on this world! The Governor of The Rig will go down in history, for he will be the first of the oppressors to die in our revolution!" With that, Walhart raised his axe and beheaded the man, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

"My brothers, I know many of you are wondering what I really want. I only desire to forge a better world for all of us! Assembled here, I see strength. Power. What if we used that to change society? We, the working classes, are everything that is needed to constitute a nation! We don't need the rest of the feudal society! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that was earned on our backs! It is time we take the wealth and prosperity that always should have been ours!" Walhart sized up the crowd. He could tell his words were reaching many of the freed prisoners, and he eagerly continued. "I once believed that society could be changed through peace, but I see now that peace is an illusion. It is something the oppressors want, because they want us to be docile! They fear our true might! We cannot coexist with them! We cannot work with their system! My Deliverance, it is time for a _restructuring_. We must be willing to stand up to them! To defend our own interests! We must tear down the world they have built, and from its ashes, we will build a better one! We need to force the issue! They oppress us through their laws and police and have the audacity to call it morality. They force us into these prisons and call it justice! The nobles will take and take, and they'll never stop. They have to be told to stop! They have to be made to stop! We need to force them to take us seriously! They have played their hand! Time and time again through their unjust laws they have played their hand! Now it is time we play ours! We need to show them that if the public is pushed too far, it WILL push back! I want a world where for once, for ONCE, the working man is on top. Tell me, is that so wrong?! Or would you rather have people like Commodia?!"

Most of the men roared in agreement. The crowd built upon itself, as men in the very back who probably couldn't even hear Walhart were encouraged by the uproar they heard from the men in front of them. Mob mentality took over, and it spiraled into a furious legion for Walhart to bend to his will. "My brothers, the revolution has begun! No gods! No kingdoms! No masters!"

The Deliverance chanted the saying immediately. The prisoners didn't know it at first, but they soon joined in. " _ **NO GODS! NO KINGDOMS! NO MASTERS!**_ "

As the men left the prison, they set fire to the cash crop plantations outside of the walls they'd been forced to work. The flames could be seen all the way back in Sakdrisi. It was an ominous warning of things to come.

The Valmese Civil War, or the War of the Deliverance, had begun.


	8. The Troubles

"I-I don't know about this, m-mother."

It wasn't often that Queen Serria could spend time with her daughters. The princesses spent hours with tutors and instructors most days, and Serria had her duties as queen. Beyond all that, girls that age had better things to do than hang out with their mother.

One thing that always did bring Serria and Annalisa together was their mutual love of Pegasus riding. The youngest princess was a natural, and she was even capable of riding Serria's old war mount on her own. Adalhaid never had the same interest, but Serria wanted to change that. "Come on, Haidy. She won't hurt you. She's a sweetheart."

Adalhaid generally tried to put on a brave face at all times, but Serria and Annalisa could tell she was nervous around her mother's Pegasus. "She's adorable, Adalhaid." Annalisa smiled as she brushed the Pegasus' hair. Serria's mount wasn't fit for military service anymore, and she was showing her age, but mother and daughter kept her in good shape. "Come on. She won't bite."

"I-I just don't see how a creature this large could be adorable."

Serria frowned. "Are you scared, dear?"

"I… it's just… I've seen Captain Caeldy with the Pegasus Knights. These animals can move so quickly."

"But they're gentle, Haidy. You just need to earn their trust. Come on. Brush her hair. She likes that."

"Uh… sure. Alright." Annalisa handed her sister the brush, but Serria's Pegasus didn't respond the same to the crown princess. She was already fidgeting when Adalhaid approached, and the princess wasn't gentle with her brushing. Serria looked on with increasing worry until her mount finally reared up. "Agh! M-mother!"

"Shh, sweetie. It's okay!"

"I mean no offense, but your beast is a hazard!"

"My _friend_ won't hurt you." Serria stepped forward. The Queen's touch immediately calmed her old friend, and Serria closed her eyes and leaned in. At that moment, Adalhaid understood how strong their bond really was. "Easy, girl. Easy. My daughter won't hurt you. She's just nervous."

"Mother… I'm sorry."

"You're fine. She can sense how nervous you are is all. A Pegasus will form bonds with people. She trusts us, and that's why you scared her. If you're nervous, she'll think you're trying to tell her there's danger nearby. Just be calm."

"And be more gentle with the brush." Annalisa added.

"Alright." Adalhaid slowly stepped forward and tried again, and Serria's Pegasus calmed down. "I-I'm doing it! Heh, look!"

Serria patted her on the shoulder. She wanted to hug her tight, but she knew no sixteen year old would appreciate that. "See? You're a natural too. In fact, you girls are lucky to grow up with so much. You have nothing to be scared of here. Absolutely nothing."

The three women turned as Federico approached. The veteran knight stood at attention until the three were ready to acknowledge him. "My Queen. Princess Adalhaid. Princess Annalisa."

The youngest princess smiled back, though Serria noticed how grim his expression was. "Well hello there, Fredericson!"

"Milady, we've been over this. That is not my name."

Annalisa put her hands behind her back and twisted her upper body from side to side in a girlish manner. "Oh but the look on your face is so cute whenever I get your name wrong."

"Noted." Federico turned to Serria. "Forgive me, my Queen. I have urgent news."

"Oh. I'll be right there. I was just showing Adalhaid how to bond with a Pegasus. I'll only need another ten minutes."

Federico stepped forward. "I'm sorry, but this is _urgent_. It's a matter of state security."

"Huh?"

"My Queen… maybe the girls shouldn't be around to hear this."

"What's wrong?"

"There's been an attack. A prison outside of Sakdrisi was lost."

The princesses gave worried looks to Serria, and she tried to stay calm. "What's wrong? Is this a revolt?"

"No, my Queen. This is a _revolution_."

* * *

Deciding it wasn't safe to return to Sakdrisi or Kronshtadt, Walhart split the 1,400 men under his command into two groups. Farber took 100 gladiators and 300 former prisoners south, while Walhart took the larger group directly west. Together they were to eventually meet up by the city of Las Médulas in western Valm. Their actions would come to be remembered as "The Blooding Marches".

Farber focused mainly on keeping his men fed, and he allowed his forces to ransack farmland and hold up merchant caravans. Anyone who resisted was killed. 27 people died because of Farber's actions.

Walhart was a little more active in kickstarting the civil war, and his march was borderline classicide. His forces went through two small towns, looting for supplies and killing every police officer they could find. Walhart then went out of his way to attack a famous hot springs resort, and this would be no campy hot springs scramble. Walhart's men thoroughly and methodically robbed the relatively wealthy visitors of everything they had with them, and anyone who resisted in any way was slain. The springs ran red with blood by the time the force left. Lastly, Walhart killed a feudal lord and his entire family after storming his manor. A surviving official for the lord responded by recruiting nearby serfs into a militia. Infuriated by the "class traitors", Walhart stood his ground and drove the militia from the field. It would be his first time commanding large groups of people in battle, and it would provide invaluable experience for the civil war to come. 357 people died because of Walhart's actions.

Walhart and Farber met up outside of Las Médulas after two weeks and created a base in an abandoned gold mine. Walhart spent the next month building up the Deliverance and preparing to continue the war. He also authored a new treatise to replace _Peace In Our Time - A Modern Interpretation_. Whereas his original work was an attempt to inspire change by articulating the perceived injustices of society, this treatise was a justification for what Walhart was about to do. It served as both a declaration of war and a manifesto for his new movement.

* * *

Kill To Save

Author: Walhart

I would like to begin this work with a quote from _Peace In Our Time_ , a novel once written by the legendary Queen Celica herself. "In our lives, we will spark. We will flare. We will flicker. We will fade. In the end, all of our tomorrows become yesterdays. Don't let life pass you by. It's never too late to seek a newer world." This was the first novel I ever read, and it helped to make me into the man I am today. That quote in particular stood out to me. It made me believe that one can always dedicate their life to making a better society. You don't have to simply keep your head down and work, and you should be wary of anyone that tells you to.

Not everyone may know who I am, especially in the time immediately after this is written, so allow me to introduce myself. I was born a peasant, denied any education. I grew up within the Kingdom of Valm, though I do not know where I was born, and my parents were dead by the time I was five years old. I have been on my own since then, sustaining myself first through simple tasks, then through difficult manual labor. At fourteen I came to work in a copper mine outside of the gold producing city of Sakdrisi, and by twenty two I had gotten a job within the gold mine itself. At eighteen I married the beautiful and intelligent daughter of a failing merchant family. Were it not for her, I wouldn't even have the capacity to author this work.

Through the education my wife provided me, I was given the luxury of reading. I could experience more than what my status as a manual laborer would have provided me, and I read the classics as soon as I could get my hands on them. I read the works of Queen Celica, first Queen of the One Kingdom of Valentia, and of Kyros, the second King. I read works from the Ylissean continent too, learning of Anri, Marth, and the First Exalt. Through these volumes, I was enlightened as to the greatness mankind is capable of. Time and time again great heroes rose to save our race from impossible odds, and they achieved this greatness through strength. Anri, the great hero who first wielded the Ylissean Falchion, was born a peasant. The others, though born nobles, did not inherit their strength. They won allies over through charisma and force of will, and they used the holy blood in their veins to strike down degenerating gods that would have man bend to their will and forge a better world for all humanity. These heroes all prevailed through strength, and the strength was not given to them. They did not succeed through systems and social constructs. They rose to be the heroes humanity needed them to be through their own power. They proved themselves. As I read about these heroes, I realized something about their strength.

Our modern society doesn't have it.

As a young man, I wanted nothing more than to write. I wanted to inspire collective change by articulating the injustices at the heart of the system. However, I was soon taught a painful truth. The pen is not mightier than the sword when authors are censored, and I couldn't reach the lower classes when most people like me were denied the ability to read. I naively attempted to spread my views regardless, but the ones in power tried to silence me. I was abducted by members of the clergy, who benefit from the system, and they tried to "cure" me of my afflictions. That same night, my pregnant wife and mother-in-law died in a fire caused by the Magistrate of Sakdrisi because she wanted relief funding from the crown. I was then vilified for murder I committed in self defense and sent to be tortured to death in a for profit prison. I tried to encourage pacifist dissent and the free exchange of ideas. I really did. However, the ones in power will always use force to repress those who threaten their positions. I would have died in that prison had my loyal followers not broken me out. Only by turning to violence was I able to survive. I realized something that day. Peace is an illusion. It is something the oppressors want, because it keeps us docile.

Both Alm and Celica worked together to free Valentia from the tyranny of gods two thousand years ago, but they were not remembered equally. In the end, Alm is the hero who struck down Duma. In the end, the continent was named "Valm", not "Velica". Celica believed that peace could be achieved without fighting, but Alm understood that it was something you had to be willing to fight for. Even Celica was ultimately a woman that could burn a man to death with but a flick of her wrist. With that said, I will end this part of my work with a quote from Alm. It was a quote from when he was King of the One Kingdom of Valentia. "I will rule this kingdom as if it were a city on a hill. I will rule this kingdom as if the whole world were watching. We will build a model for what society could be."

Now that you know who I am, and what the feudalists did when I tried to encourage the people to change society on their own, you know why I had to begin the war. At the time of this writing, my revolution had just begun, and it will continue until I am dead, or the oppressors are defeated. We cannot coexist with them. Those in power will always do whatever they can to keep it, and there cannot be compromise with them. In an abusive relationship, there cannot be reconciliation between the abuser and the abused when the first is given no punishment. When nothing is done to prevent it from happening again. The oppressors would silence us simply for speaking out, so how could we compromise with them? Furthermore, our views are righteous, and we are justified in fighting for them. In science, when an old theory is disproved, it does not coexist with the new one. It is discarded. Why should society be any different? I will wipe the Kingdom of Valm completely and entirely from the face of the Earth, and in its place, I will create a new society. It will be as a society on a hill, and I will rule it as if the entire world were watching.

I can only achieve this through violence, but violence is not inherently wrong. Sometimes good comes because of it. Peace is an artificial construct. Something mankind tries to force on the world. Nature is violent. Predators constantly hunt their prey. Individuals in a species are injured and tortured in selfish conflict with other individuals. Entire species go extinct. Even the dragons, as advanced as they were, succumbed to degeneration and madness. Our forms are weak. We can be crippled in accidents. We are ravaged by disease. We can drown in a bowl of water. Each and every individual human is an intelligence with a unique worldview, and it can all be lost in a second. All life ultimately dies, and all individual life is ultimately worthless. The only point in existence is to devote yourself to a greater cause. To leave a legacy on the world. All lifeforms, even the simplest, do this by having children. We human beings can do more. We can change our society, and we can leave a lasting legacy that can affect millions of people yet to be born. A human being's only allegiance should be to the future of our species as a whole. We should plan not years or even decades ahead, but centuries and millennia ahead. We must do what is necessary to secure our future. My revolution is for the good of humanity. My revolution is for that future. I am not trying to justify casual violence. If my revolutionaries come to be remembered as petty murderers, rapists, and thieves, then I hope they are vilified as such. I am not trying to argue for selfish conflict. I am arguing that sometimes conflict is necessary to create a better future. Hundreds of thousands may die, but they die so hundreds of millions can live in prosperity.

You may be wondering how I could possibly justify killing in the name of saving people. Allow me to put forward a thought experiment. Let's say you see a runaway carriage heading towards five incapacitated people on a road. There is also a side road with a single incapacitated person on it. You do not have the power to stop the carriage, but you can divert it onto the side road. To do so will save more lives, but you will be killing the individual. Letting the carriage go on the main road would kill five people. Choosing to do nothing is still a choice. If you choose to divert the carriage, you are saving the most lives. You are killing to save.

Now that we've established violence can be used to protect people, you must further understand that peace with the oppressors was never possible. All I did was speak out, and they tried to silence me. When they could not, they tried to slander me. They ask people to be cogs in their machine. Watch what you say, or they'll call you a radical. Liberal. Fanatical. Criminal. They want us to fall in line. To be acceptable. Respectable. Presentable. They want us to be vegetables. They repress anyone that threatens their control and have the audacity to call it morality. They do it through their laws. Their police. Their soldiers. Their bureaucrats. They do it through all the necessary mechanisms of society to make it seem like it's justice. That it's a necessary part of the rule of law. They do it only to protect their order, and they use the law to hold back the strong. I am not suggesting anarchy. My revolution will build a society that still upholds the rule of law. I am not suggesting we live without order. I am simply saying that if the oppressors were removed from power, the posts could be infinitely better filled by people rising to the position through merit.

All I want is peace, but not the illusion the oppressors have built. I want a permanent, lasting peace. I will wage my revolution until the distinction between war and peace is gone. I will not just attack the Kingdom of Valm. I will tear down each and every kingdom on this continent, and then I will do the same to the Ylissean continent. I will wage a total war on the very concept of their illusion of peace, and every man, woman, and child will feel this revolution. I will fight until the nobles, lords, soldiers, police officers, bankers, priests, bootlickers, reactionaries and apologists are dead, and then I will keep fighting. I will fight until the very concept of civilization is lost from the world.

And then I will build the newer world.

My new civilization will be built from the ground up, and it will be perfect. There will be no conflict. No strife. No dissent. No privilege. There will be free distribution of resources, and everyone will have the opportunity to rise in society through force of will and merit. This prosperity will be enforced by a peaceful autocracy. The state will meet everyone's needs, and those who would start selfish conflict will be brought back into the collective by force if necessary. Everyone will live for the good of society, and society will exist for the good of everyone. There is no freedom or autonomy in this society, but there is no such thing in nature either. Even in a society with unlimited freedom, there would be those who would use their freedom to reign over others. Freedom from scarcity. Conflict. Corruption. That is true freedom. A society where we can earn a place in the world regardless of our birth is autonomy. I will create peace through the application of raw, unparalleled power.

Peace through a benevolent guiding hand.

To create this peace, we must move past our selfish and material desires. So long as we are defined by selfishness, we can never be free. Our very flesh is limiting to us, and it is hard to reject the control of worldly desires. Our lives are maintained by an environment that cannot get past the flesh, and we are bound by the usual desires: desire for food, desire for sex, desire for sleep. These are the necessary and basic things for maintaining life, and you must obtain them with money. As you would expect, our human race has never been completely free from this spell: mankind's limited world is that of the flesh, from which you are tied to your desires.

To truly know freedom—to truly live meaningful lives—we must move past a society built on this atavistic selfishness, and we must eliminate the oppressors who seek to keep us in a system that allows them to satisfy their selfish desires while the rest of us live in poverty. Our revolution will continue until all the landed aristocrats have been driven from their positions of power and replaced by those who have risen through merit. We will do this in all the kingdoms of the world until every society is controlled by the working classes. When this happens, the differences between the civilizations will be forgotten. The competition between the common people of these civilizations will cease. The world will come together, and the decisive modes of production will be concentrated in the hands of the working classes. There will be no Valm. No Kyros. No Tarsque. No Veslil. No Roseanne. No Chon'sin. No Ferox. No Plegia. No Ylisse. There will be no more nation states. There will only be a unified humanity. World peace at last.

To create this society, I will wage the revolution until the very concept of war is inconceivable. I will fight until the word weapon has lost all meaning. I will fight until people cannot understand the purpose of a weapon. I will fight until the rejection of my weapon is of no significance to anyone but me. Only then will I stop fighting, for only then will I have earned the right to relieve myself of my burden. I will fight until a permanent peace is achieved.

I will kill to save.

* * *

What people would come to remember most about the first few months of the civil war, "The Troubles", was how violent it was, and how quickly the Deliverance struck. Walhart did not style his forces as a standing army. The Deliverance did anything they could to destabilize the existing systems and terrify the nobility, and they melted into the wilderness once the fighting was over.

The very public wedding between the new Duke and Duchess of Manassas was attacked. Bride and groom were kidnapped, and most of the wealthy guests were murdered.

A drinking well for a military garrison outside of Kremnica was poisoned. Thirteen royal soldiers joined Conrad and Courtney in dying for their country, and forty eight soldiers became grievously ill.

Over a dozen prominent merchant families went out of business due to repeated attacks on their trading caravans. Millions of gold coins worth of goods were lost, and dozens of people died.

The Count of Las Médulas was kidnapped and lynched in full view of his small hometown.

The Baroness of Dolaucothi and her escort were overwhelmed while visiting the city. They were public stripped, beaten, paraded through the city, and unceremoniously executed.

An academy for mages, the only one of its kind in the Kingdom of Valm, was attacked. A few students are believed to have willingly joined the Deliverance, but most of the student body and staff were killed. The Deliverance may have attacked in the belief that they had something to do with the creation of Einherjar.

One of Commodia's elder brothers, who worked for a prominent noble in Kremnica, was specifically targeted and murdered in the capital. His severed head was sent to Sakdrisi.

Three small gold mines outside of Las Médulas and the major copper mine outside of Sakdrisi were destroyed by sabotage, causing three million gold worth of damages and costing the government tens of millions in lost revenue. No workers were killed, as they'd been replaced by Einherjar, but dozens of administrators died.

A diplomat from Chon'sin was murdered while leaving Kremnica. It was this event that would make the other kingdoms of the continent aware of the civil war.

A passenger ship was attacked from a distance by mages after the Deliverance learned the Magistrate of Kronshtadt was on it. The Magistrate died alongside over 200 other passengers.

Perhaps most infamously, King Merovech's aging mother was murdered in her summer home outside of the capital. Her head was sent to Kremnica.

Within his personal office in Sakdrisi, Excellus swirled the wine in his glass around as Nelson, who'd stayed behind after Walhart was freed, finished reading a report of everything that had happened since then. It had been two months since the Storming of The Rig, as the event would be known. Excellus expected Walhart to begin his revolution shortly after.

But he never expected the storm Valm weathered now.

"This… this is getting out of hand." Excellus focused intently on the motion of the liquid in his glass, taking deep breaths. "The former Queen butchered like an animal, several nobles dead or kidnapped, over thirty million gold in damages… I underestimated Walhart. What have I unleashed?"

Nelson actually had a worried look on his face. For once he felt that Excellus didn't have the next twenty moves planned out. "This is what you wanted, right?"

"Yes… but I didn't think Walhart would be this aggressive. He's more capable than I thought." Excellus stood up and stared at the wall. He didn't really speak directly to Nelson. Rather, he simply narrated, as if he felt the need to get something off his chest. "I created Walhart."

"By manipulating Farber into freeing him."

"More than that. I forged him. I was there every step of his way. You see, it was I who convinced Commodia to automate the mine in response to the strike over a year ago. Automation was a brilliant dovetail between generating additional profits, increasing my influence with Commodia, and creating future instability. Then the miners revolted, and I realized the potential. I understood that their rage could be harnessed. I could mold one of them into a useful idiot that would ultimately create opportunities peacetime never would. I hired Ruger to kill the guards on the prison ship Commodia sent, and I knew Ruger would inevitably take the miners into the underground gladiator matches. When I learned of Walhart's writings, how political he already was, I knew he would be the zealot I needed. I gave his writings to Father Tyranus, and I gave the wine to Decius' mages so they'd become drunk and lose control of their magic. I created the Great Fire of Sakdrisi, and I ultimately killed Walhart's family. I then continued to funnel money to the Magistrate of Kronshtadt to keep him from cracking down on the gladiator matches even after the Deliverance was created, and I, as you know, had the weapons given to Walhart and his forces. Lastly, I orchestrated the Storming of The Rig once Commodia finally captured Walhart. I _built_ Walhart from the ground up. He may be genuinely motivated to change society, but this civil war is of my creation."

Nelson looked inquisitively at his employer. Excellus didn't appear guilty. He'd never expressed guilt over his actions before. Still, the Quaestor looked nervous. Was he worried about the war? Was he simply trying to find a way to further use it to his advantage? Nelson had been part of a myriad of schemes Excellus had created, but he'd never realized he was capable of anything this complex. The fact that he didn't seem entirely in control of the consequences of his actions disturbed the young mage. "Sir, with all due respect… why?"

"Instability. The lengths I go to for a little return. What I wanted was a little instability and a few zealots for later. Now it's gone too far. I wanted a rebellion, but I can't control this."

Nelson froze. "You… don't know what you're doing? You're not in control? Excellus… hundreds are dead!"

Excellus scoffed. "Nelson, prepare my thinking dinner."

"Now?"

"Now!"

Nelson returned later that evening with a boiled lobster and yet another bottle of Ylissean wine to find Excellus seated in his chair, frozen in thought. Excellus ate his dinner slowly, savoring every bite and making his every glass of wine last, and then he continued to sit. But for the intensity of his aimless stare, it was like he'd died quietly.

But then it came to him, an idea most grim. Excellus put on his most Excellian grin. He'd finally found a way he could win. His eyes filled with hope and his heart filled with greed, he called Nelson back for the commands he would heed.

"I've got it, Nelson! The solution!"

"You know how to bring Walhart under control?"

"Life's not about controlling everything. It's about knowing how to twist events that happen on their own to benefit you, and adapting to situations to make the best of them. You don't have to control a wild beast to make use of it. You only have to steer it towards your enemies. You see, I was only focused on profiting off the instability. Now I see a way to gain power."

"Aren't power and wealth the same thing?"

"No. Wealth is a human construct." Excellus thought of the four winged, six eyed being his true allegiance belonged too. "Power is an aspect of nature. Something humanity can only barely grasp." Excellus' grin twisted from ear to ear as he turned to Nelson. "The problem with feudalism is that it's restrictive. The King is the King because he's the King. End of story. Bureaucrats like Commodia and I will always be just that. However, these power structures can only be maintained in peacetime."

Nelson started to understand. "But in war…"

"Walhart is perfect. He is a commoner with no connections to the existing systems, and all the nobles will be terrified of his classicide. They will flock to whoever can make them feel safe, and the existing power structures will change. We just have to make sure that person isn't the King. There's going to be a power vacuum, and we're going to fill it."

"With you?"

"And put myself in the middle of the storm? Nelson, here's a piece of advice. Being at the right side of power allows you to have power without being in the public eye. Without taking the blame whenever things go wrong. _Commodia_ will rise to fill it. The nobles will turn to her to protect them from Walhart, and Walhart will focus his efforts on her."

"But what if she can't beat Walhart?"

"We play both sides. Either Walhart will win, or she will. Either way, the King will be left flat footed and foolish, and we will be at the side of the victor."

"But you have nothing to do with Walhart. Only I am his ally."

"We'll have to change that. Nelson, return to Walhart. Tell him, hee hee, that his benefactor would like to finally meet him."

* * *

Though small and relatively insignificant, the Kingdom of Valm was old. Its history stretched back to the breakup of the One Kingdom of Valentia, and the land had been known for its mineral wealth even before then. People had been pulling gold, silver, copper, and other useful metals from the ground since some of the Divine Dragons of legend had been alive. If anything, the deaths of Duma and Mila only intensified mining operations in the region as the centuries went by. Without gods, there was nothing to provide humans with our primal need for meaning and security.

Nothing except the long established value of gold.

Perhaps no city was more of a testament to the region's history of mining than Las Médulas. Though Sakdrisi had become the country's main supplier of gold over the past few centuries, Las Médulas was one of the largest mining facilities on the continent at its peak a millennium ago. Sakdrisi had only eclipsed it as the gold slowly dried up, and even now it still produced about twenty percent of the Kingdom's gold supply while mines kilometers away supplied over half of the silver. At its height, the mine supplied over 8,000 kilograms of gold every year, and its most prosperous century saw over 1,100,000 kilograms produced in total. Las Médulas was the key to Valmese power once, and the Kingdom's slow decline is arguably directly tied to the gradual decline in the city's gold production.

The hills surrounding the city were alien in appearance. Proof, in a poetic way, of how unnatural man's innate desire for material wealth can be. Though surrounded by trees, the hills were stripped down to the rock. They just didn't fit in with the nearby environment. They were covered with layers of brown, tan, and orange, and you would swear they sometimes appeared to glow in the bright sunlight. The mining technique that caused this was known as the "Wrecking of the Mountains". Miners would excavate narrow cavities down into a mountain. These would then be filled with water, and the pressure would be strong enough to fragment thick rock walls.

In our time, this practice was done extensively by the Roman Empire, and the words of Pliny the Elder speak to the scale of the technique. "What happens is far beyond the work of giants. The mountains are bored with corridors and galleries made by lamplight with a duration that is used to measure the shifts. For months, the miners cannot see the sunlight and many of them die inside the tunnels. This type of mine has been given the name of _ruina montium_. The cracks made in the entrails of the stone are so dangerous that it would be easier to find purpurine or pearls at the bottom of the sea than make scars in the rock. How dangerous we have made the Earth!"

The residents of Las Médulas squeezed each and every hill dry. Massive stone aqueducts that were now long abandoned crisscrossed the area, having once supplied the water necessary for the technique. Years were spent exhausting the alluvial placer deposits to slowly filter out gold ore, a process that consumed massive amounts of water and required significant manpower, until finally the miners managed to reach the primary gold veins. Water tanks would then be constructed right over the veins to flood them and further expose the mother lode. Miners then toiled away for however long it took to extract the gold, and entire layers of the hills were stripped away as necessary. When opencast work became uneconomical, the miners dug tunnels deeper and deeper into the base of the hills until the gold was completely gone. Generations of men would work each hill over decades, and the larger ones in particular would become part of local folklore. By the time a hill was abandoned, it was a complicated mess of tunnels, rearranged sediment deposits, and abandoned aqueducts. The corpses of hundreds of miners killed in accidents were also interred within these barren edifices to the industry that had employed them. The modern residents of the nearby settlement hated the sight of the hills, and the more superstitious spoke of ghosts and hauntings. They never ventured into the area anymore, instead preferring the small subterranean mines that had since replaced the exhausted gold deposits that once sustained a much more influential kingdom.

This made the area a perfect hiding place for Walhart and his forces.

Several hundred members of the Deliverance could be found within the hills at any given time, and they camped out in different areas. Some made their homes in abandoned mines. Others in the forest. Walhart's main base was at the base of one of the aqueducts, though he was ready to pack up and leave at a moment's notice. It wasn't much to speak of. The interior only contained a few rooms, and most of it was dedicated to storage. That said, the main room was rather imposing. In the center, built on top of a raised platform, was a throne of sorts. The Deliverance couldn't take _This Machine_ with them, so they'd dismantled it for supplies. Some of the wood was used to make the throne now, giving it a symbolic connection to the start of the conflict. The second most imposing aspect of the room was the jury rigged dungeon. It was nothing more than a few prisoners chained directly to the stone wall, but Walhart had them casually visible to anyone who entered the building.

If this wasn't intimidating enough, Walhart himself had taken the time to look the part of warlord. His hair was starting to grow back, though it was still short, and he now sported the beginnings of a full beard as he'd ceased shaving. "The peasant guerilla", as the specific look would become nicknamed in the coming years, was nothing like what Cervantes would someday have, but the combination of his jet black hair and endlessly white eyes gave Walhart an instantly commanding look. Walhart still wore the plate armor he'd stolen from The Rig, but he had it re-fashioned to fit him, and it was now colored dark red. (Sound familiar?) Walhart also had the double handed battleaxe Farber had given him, but it too was customized. It was now dark red instead of gold and purple, and all the symbols of the monarchy had been removed save for one.

A lion.

Walhart sat up straight in his throne as his expected guest entered his headquarters. To his left stood Farber, who stepped down to prevent the visitor from getting any closer. Farber wore a customized set of plate armor, mostly black with dark red highlights, but he also wore a mage esque cape over it. To Walhart's right was Nelson, who prepared to speak. Nelson looked entirely out of place next to the two. Like if you took a first year liberal arts major and stuck him with some lumberjacks. "Oh great and mighty Walhart, allow me to finally introduce you to my master. This is Excellus, the Quaestor of the Sakdrisi City Government."

Excellus rubbed his hands together as he slowly approached the throne. Still clad in his official robes and noticeably more out of shape than anyone present, Excellus looked like he had no business being anywhere near Walhart. However, Walhart allowed himself not the complacency of judging his guest by such superficial things. As his white eyes followed Excellus' every movement, he realized how feigned it all was. Excellus was pretending to be nervous, but Walhart saw he believed the situation to be entirely under his control. He wasn't to be underestimated. "Walhart?" Excellus appeared to be in awe. "I… I pledge my allegiance _undying_."

Walhart scoffed. "Stand up straight like a man. I have no use for suck ups."

Excellus chuckled. "Ooh. Straight to business. I like that."

Walhart sat back. "So, you're the man Nelson here has told me so much about."

"Good things, I hope?"

"Nelson would have me believe you want nothing more than to contribute to my revolution. That said, Nelson is like a snake in the grass. He lies low when people are actually looking for him and strikes only when convenient."

"From what I hear, it sounds like your war effort is little different."

Farber descended from the platform. "How dare you-"

Walhart silenced him with a simple raise of his arm. If anything, he looked amused. "I'll give you that one. I'm going to be blunt, Quaestor. I know you work for Commodia, and I know that officially you are little more than a glorified accountant. Tell me, what use have I for you?"

"Surely Nelson mentioned everything I've _already_ done for you?"

"Oh yes. In fact, he'd have me believe I never would have gotten this far without you. He told me about how you had me freed from the prison ship, and how you orchestrated the attack on The Rig." Walhart slowly looked over to Nelson until he sheepishly returned his gaze. "He'd have me believe my working class revolution is all due to the patronage of a portly bureaucrat and his leech of an assistant."

Nelson gave an awkward laugh. "I, I meant no disrespect. I only wanted to inform you of everything my master has done for-"

"Silence!" Farber barked. Nelson stuck his finger in the air for a few seconds, as if trying to respond, before hanging his head.

"Uh… okay."

Excellus' smile only grew. "Walhart, I would never insult your intelligence by asking you to trust me. After all, I rose to my position through backstabbing and manipulation. You see, I don't just get on people's nerves. I find them, slowly caress them, then throttle them, hee hee!"

Walhart raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"There was nothing legal about Commodia's rise. She encouraged backstabbing in her retinue, and that is why you should believe my sincerity in helping you. I have no personal loyalty to her. I only seek to get ahead. We can use each other, Walhart."

Farber scowled. "Why do you think we want to hear anything about Commodia?"

"Oh, yeah. She's a baaad, bad girl. That said, she's gotten somewhere in life, hasn't she? She rose thanks to people like me, and I can do that for you."

Walhart's nostrils flared and he audibly snarled, but his eyes continued to focus on Excellus. The very idea of the Quaestor and everything he represented brought out a primal rage from Walhart, but the growing strategic part of him suppressed this immediate reaction. There was a need for men like this in war. "Understand this, bureaucrat. My revolution is for the common man. Tell me, what did you notice about the environment coming here?"

"It was… pointy?"

"The hills are like that because of centuries of mining. Hundreds upon thousands of working men have died in these hills. They died so that the rest of the continent could have pathetic golden trinkets. They toiled away for scraps while the nobles grew rich off their work. This is the kind of greed and inequality that I want to get rid of."

"Gold is the basis of the economy."

"Then I will build a new economy. I have no desire for fair weather opportunists who only want to use my forces to get ahead in society. I will _tear down_ society completely and entirely. If you wish to stand with me, then you must stand with me. Allow me to demonstrate." Walhart descended his throne and approached the makeshift dungeon. Two prisoners were currently chained to the wall there, gagged so they could do little but whimper. The first was Father Nominus, who Walhart kept around for his own amusement. The Deliverance leader took the time to backhand the boy as he walked by. The second prisoner, and the one Walhart focused on, was the Duchess of Manassas. The Deliverance had kidnapped her from her special day early in the conflict. She was even still wearing the tattered remains of her wedding dress. "Do you recognize this woman?"

"The Duchess of Manassas, assuming her interrupted marriage is still considered official. So this is where you took her. Now… what became of her new husband?"

"The Duke wasn't as… cooperative. Now he's swinging from a tree by his hometown."

The brutality hardly affected Excellus. "Well… they say half of all marriages end in divorce. Always nice to see a couple that stays together until death, hee hee."

"Oh, the poor Duchess here will be joining her husband. You see, my sycophantic benefactor, nobles like this have no place in my new society. They contribute nothing. They produce nothing. They are parasites on the backs of the working classes, and they have the audacity to think themselves better than us commoners when they, not us, are the ones who truly are worthless to the future of humanity!" The Duchess trembled violently out of fear as Walhart roared at her, unable to do much else. As if offended, Walhart grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head down. "I kept this _thing_ alive to use as a bartering chip, but it seems the government hardly cares about just two nobles. I'm tired of feeding her. Excellus… prove your dedication to our cause. I want _you_ to kill her."

Everyone else in the room looked shocked at the request. Everyone except the man Walhart actually asked to do it. The Duchess looked at Excellus with pleading eyes, knowing he was her only chance. Excellus looked right back, but he barely acknowledged her. "As you wish." Grinning from ear to ear, Excellus sent an electrical discharge of some kind at the woman with but a flick of his wrist. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but the Duchess soon began to fidget, and her discomfort further deteriorated into spasming. With a scream quite audible even through the gag, the Duchess shook herself apart as the heat of the spell burned through her flesh. She eventually crumpled to the floor as her torso detached from her restrained arms, and within a few seconds it was impossible to tell what had been her dress apart from what had been the Duchess herself. Even Walhart had to take several steps back at the sight. Excellus just chuckled. "As you can see, I'm quite willing to get wet and wild and do dirty, _dirty_ things."

Farber looked to Walhart, making sure he wasn't the only one who saw that. "Where the hell does Commodia find her people?!"

Walhart cleared his throat, using the time it took to reach his throne to regain his composure. "So… you truly have no love for the existing systems. You just murdered a Duchess. You'll be executed if they catch you. You really do stand with our 'rebellion' now." Walhart molded back into his chair. "I may never trust you, but perhaps we truly can forge an alliance of convenience. So you expect me to disrupt society and create a power vacuum for you to fill? You expect me to eventually strike at Commodia?"

"Oh, you know. I'm not asking for much. A little killing here. A little kidnapping there. You're the terrorist. I'll let you plan the shows. Just keep the nobles on their toes."

"And what will you give me?"

"I am a very influential man. I can supply you with anything you want. Men? Funding? Supplies? Equipment? …Women?"

"If you truly are influential, than you will do this for me." Walhart leaned forward. "My men are undisciplined. They cannot stand up to the King's army in a pitched battle. I need to be able to defeat the Royalists in decisive engagements. I want you to find me soldiers, preferably officers. I need professionals who can train my men. Turn them into a proper army. I don't want regime bootlickers either. I want men disgruntled with the way things are. Men who will be loyal to the revolution."

"That… could take time."

"Time is something I have a lot of. Now go. Recruit these soldiers for me. Do this, or don't bother coming back."

Excellus gave an exaggerated bow, then held his hand by his face in his signature pose. It certainly wouldn't be the last time Walhart saw it. "As you wish." The Quaestor then disappeared in a flash of blinding light, showing that he'd never really been there. His entire presence was a trick of dark magic.

Farber shook his head as he turned to Walhart. "Sneaky little butterball, isn't he? I don't trust him."

"Oh I trust him about as far as I can smack him around with my axe. Still, we might need men like that."

"I thought you hated soldiers."

Walhart remembered Gracchus. "Ideology can be black and white, but praxis rarely is. The revolution can't succeed unless we actually _win_ the war."

"You know, Gracchus had another quote. Those who play with the Shadow Dragon's toys, will be brought by degrees to wield his sword."

Part of Walhart was impressed that Farber remembered. Part of him was annoyed that he didn't have a response. "Find something to do, Farber."

"Err, yes, Walhart." Farber walked away from the throne, but he stopped to slap Nominus across the face as he left the building. "See you around, priest."

"Mmph!"

* * *

"Rutger."

Within the courthouse in Sakdrisi, Ruger fiddled with the portable clock he'd thrown against a wall in an inferiority complex driven fit of rage. "Come on, you piece of crap." Ruger frequently switched between two tools as he fiddled with the internal mechanism of the clock, always holding the one he wasn't using in his teeth. "Mila's scaly ass! Getting a Sakdrisi harlot off is less of a pain than this!"

"Rutger."

"Yeah, come on. Give it to me. Give it to me! Come on. Give it to daddy." Some intricate piece of machinery in Ruger's clock snapped, and he narrowly avoided getting debris in his eyes. "Oh yeah! That's exactly what I wanted you to do! I'm so proud of you! Daddy is so friggin proud! Give it to me. Give it to me! Give it to me, you cheap piece of crap!"

"Rutger!"

"Just shove a levin sword up my rear end why don't you!" Ruger finally gave up and hurled the clock across the room yet again, almost hitting an elderly woman seated at a bench. "Clocks are pricks!" He turned to the man speaking. "It's Ruger! Not Rutger! Who the hell is Rutger?!"

Commodia's young white haired male assistant—the very same man who had ordered the soldiers to suppress the miners strike that fateful day—stood tall. "My deepest apologies." He said in a bitterly sarcastic voice. "Now, the Magistrate is waiting."

Ruger picked a small piece of metal out of his blue hair. "Hell. I'm glad I didn't fall asleep on that."

"Did the gentleman hear me?"

"Huh?! Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah. Let's go see Commodia."

"Her _title_ is _Magistrate_."

Ruger made a cupping motion. "She's got you like this, doesn't she?"

"The very grating gentleman will follow me." Commodia's assistant lead Ruger to Commodia's office. The Magistrate was waiting for him, though her fidgeting made it clear she didn't want to be there. "Magistrate Commodia, allow me to introduce Ruger. I… have nothing else to call him. Now, the gentleman will bow."

To Commodia's surprise, Ruger actually gave her a respectful bow. The Magistrate nodded, and her assistant left the room. "Ruger. I've done some research on you since the last time we spoke. You have a reputation across Valm. I'm surprised you would bow for anyone."

"Oh, your assistant and I are old friends. I didn't want to embarrass him at work."

Commodia chuckled, though it wasn't pleasant. "Jokes I see. Let me tell you something, Ruger. I've been surrounded almost entirely by men since my legal education, and I've learned quite a bit about them. It seems like all men think they have jokes. When a man is failing in all other aspects of life—you know, physical strength, intelligence, success—he always seems to have _jokes_."

"Why don't you write a book Commodia? How to be a rooster when you're not built that way."

"Well you're in my coop now, boy." As if on cue, Decius stepped behind Ruger and gently rested his armored gauntlet on his shoulder. Commodia herself was a little taller than Ruger, so you can imagine how the trickster felt as the captain loomed over him.

"Yes well… perhaps we should get to business?"

"Oh, what's the matter, Ruger? No more biting wit?" Commodia leaned into her arm and sat in a slovenly manner. "On to business then. To my surprise, the information you gave me just before I lost The Rig seems accurate."

"Bet you wish you listened to me then, huh?"

"Actually… yes. So you really did work with Walhart? You have information on his army?"

"I did, and I'm the best source you have right now. I can help you track him down."

"Well I'm willing to work with you this time. So what do you want?"

Ruger leaned back in his chair. "Ah, now you need my help. Now you come crawling back to Ruger. You dismissed me before, but now you can't afford it. Let me tell you the first thing I want. Why don't you give me a smile, Commodia? You're always so serious. You'd look prettier." Without even having to be asked, Decius squeezed down on Ruger's shoulder. "Agh! Alright, alright! I'm done! I want the usual. Gold. The city guard looking the other way at my actions. You know. That sort of thing."

"Done." Commodia continued to eye Ruger, and for a brief moment he was more disturbed of her than Decius. "But tell me something. Walhart seems… principled. He wouldn't have worked with someone like you unless you were actually dedicated to his cause."

"Well… I did stick around with him longer than I usually do."

"So why are you working with the authority? Why do you want to help me?"

"Because I'm a fan of yours, Commodia. Ever since you put Walhart in prison." Ruger leaned forward and pointed towards his face. It was mostly healed, but bruises and cuts were still visible. "No one does this to me and gets away with it. I want revenge."

Commodia actually gave Ruger a smile, but it was a twisted, avarice choked expression. "Stick with me, Ruger. You'll go far."

"Glad to head it. You've made the right choice taking me in. I'll make sure you don't end up like your elder brother."

Commodia gritted her teeth. "Decius… why don't you practice some combat moves with Ruger. Make sure he's in shape."

"Of course, milady."

Decius forced Ruger out of his chair. "Huh?! Oh come on! It was a joke! I can never do nothing!"


End file.
